


honey you're familiar

by nymeriahale



Series: honey you're familiar [1]
Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Coming Out, Getting Together, M/M, canon typical homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-04-07 21:00:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 85,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14089551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymeriahale/pseuds/nymeriahale
Summary: Owen and George reconnect over the course of the 2018 Six Nations and beyond.aka heavily reality based 2018 getting together and coming out fic~~~“I’ve only ever dated one person who got it, when I was a kid. Not found anyone else since,” George tells them - immediately regrets it. He’d been aware of Owen watching him gratefully in his peripheral vision. Now he’s all too aware of the way his brow immediately furrows, thoughtful. Shit.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title from From Eden by Hozier
> 
> This is a work of fiction and as such nothing is to be considered implied or insinuated about real life rugby players.

It’s the first night at the England Six Nations training camp and George is a little surprised by how quiet it is, truth be told. Some of the forwards had disappeared off with vodka and half the beer a couple of hours ago, and it’s mainly backs gathered in the games lounge with the rest of the beer. They’d been playing video games for a bit, as good naturedly competitive as professional sports players can get, but that had trailed off about half an hour ago in favour of quiet catching up. Half the squad seemed to have already turned in for the night, which is unlikely enough that George reckons there probably is more of a party in one of the other lounges, but he doesn’t feel a great urge to hunt it down.

George feels the corner of his mouth quirk up as he surveys the room, briefly tuning out a story about Ben’s family that he’s heard before. He’s fond of these lads. Even putting aside the honour of playing for England, George is glad he gets the chance to play with these boys as well as against them, glad to have this opportunity and excuse to strengthen bonds with players not on his team.

George lets his smile spread further as Ben reaches the climax of his story, briefly locking eyes with Owen before he dissolves into incredulous laughter, his laughter making George chuckle in turn. Yeah, he is fond of these boys. 

A few seconds pass, George moving his gaze from the laughing crinkle that’s all that remains to be seen of Owen’s eyes down to his smiling mouth, the movement of his shoulders. His shoulders... _Shit_. George cuts his gaze down to his beer, takes a swig. 

Maybe he’s had too much to drink, is a little further gone than he thought. He doesn’t normally get caught up in staring so easily, doesn’t _really_ get caught up at all. Sometimes he appreciates, sure - it’s only safe, he certainly doesn’t think Owen would mind. But he was leaning towards getting caught up in memories, there. Starting to think of his hands on those shoulders, times when he’d been the one playing pranks to get Owen laughing like that. Moments like that are more rare. 

Maybe it’s Ben’s tales of happy domesticity getting to him. He’d like that, honestly almost craves it at times, but it just never seems to work out. But then, it’s not like he truly ever had that with Owen, not really. They were kids when they actually dated, right in their early teens, and after that... well, he can give them happy, but they were never anywhere near domestic. You probably have to have established that you’re in a relationship to be able to call yourselves domestic, and they never managed that.

...And now George really is dwelling. On events from over 6 years ago. Fucking hell. He takes another swig of beer, looks up to rejoin the conversation and can’t resist taking a first quick glance to his side at Owen - who’s looking straight at him. Great. Owen cocks his head slightly to the side, brow already furrowed - asking if everything’s okay.

George finds a small smile, shifts to press his knee into Owen’s in reassurance - all fine.

Owen’s face clears, but he doesn’t seem entirely convinced. George tries to think of how else to reassure him, startles when Ben begins to talk again.

“But what about you?” Ben asks loudly, leaning forwards towards Owen. George is afraid he knows where this is going. He shoots Ben a look, as clear a ‘cease and desist’ warning as he can manage, but Ben’s not even looking, instead expanding his focus from Owen to bring in Anthony, Maro and JJ, who’d been having their own quiet chat. “Any development on personal fronts, boys?”

Jonathan and Anthony ramble for a little about their girlfriends, share a bit of banter about how glad they are to no longer be living with each other. George considers the matter saved, but apparently Ben is feeling particularly nosy tonight as he asks the question of Owen yet again. 

“Ah, sadly nothing to report,” Owen smiles, shrugging.

“Me and Owen are the sad singles of Saracens,” Maro pipes up.

“Sad singles of Saracens?” Anthony repeats, to a round of laughter. “Is that your secret band name?”

“Did you just come up with that?” Owen asks, incredulous. “Mate, you give the guys so much shit for ribbing you about being single, talking about how much better it is, what is this?”

“It just came to me,” Maro protests, holding his hands up. “I couldn’t resist the sibilance.”

“The what?” Owen demands. “I swear you make up words just to seem smart.”

“Sadly, I don’t need to,” Maro sighs, staying deadpan for only a few seconds before he starts to grin.

“Oooh, that’s a burn,” Ben says as Owen hisses, shaking his head. “First branded a sad single, now this. What’ve you got for him in return, Faz?”

Owen pauses for a few moments, before slowly bringing up his middle finger.

“That is weak man,” Anthony ribs over the general laughter.

“Seems like you’re accepting you really are a sad single - must suck for you,” JJ gets in on the banter. “We can’t imagine what that must be like - right lads?”

There’s a general chorus of agreement - George doesn’t join in.

“Come on though Faz,” Ben tries again when the laughter dies down. “You must have the ladies hanging off you with a mug like that, how is it even possible that you’re single?”

Owen just shrugs again, shifting on their shared sofa in a way that presses his knee briefly back into George’s. George doesn’t think it’s meant as a call for support, but he thinks he might step in anyway. “Eh, you know,” Owen tries vaguely.

“Clearly not mate, all happy here,” Anthony ribs, grinning. It’s all too clear that they think this perfectly innocent teasing - well, apart from Maro. Even if George didn’t know Owen was out to the Saracens he’d be able to tell something was up by Maro’s quietness.

“Just not too bothered to be honest,” Owen attempts.

Ben just waves a hand. “Nah, you called it sad yourself, try again.”

“Alright, just ‘cause all you lads are happy for now,” George steps in. “It’s not that easy to find someone who understands, just ‘cause you’ve got lucky. How many people have you guys dated who have got it, really got it?”

There’s a moment of quiet, and George is glad he seems to have gotten through.

“I’ve only ever dated one person who got it, when I was a kid. Not found anyone else since,” he tells them - immediately regrets it. He’d been aware of Owen watching him gratefully in his peripheral vision. Now he’s all too aware of the way his brow immediately furrows, thoughtful. _Shit_.

“When you were a kid?” Ben wrinkles his nose, skeptical. “How serious was rugby for you as a kid?”

“Pretty serious,” George mutters, defensive. He and Owen got shit for being too obsessive back then, still get it now. But Owen gets it, at least. Their families do too, mostly - and is it any wonder they turned out how they did, given that?

“Yeah, but it wouldn’t have been like this,” Ben insists. “Training camps and months away, that’s tough, that’s something that needs understanding. A few extra hours of practice a week... not really.”

“You’re underestimating Fordy’s level of obsession,” Owen jokes. “And it is a bit - weeks rather than months, but even by under 18s there’s a bit of that, to be fair. And Fordy started under 18s at... 15, yeah?”

George nods as Owen looks at him to check, only making brief eye contact.

“What do you mean by ‘kid’?” Anthony asks. “How old were you?”

“Er. Young,” is all George says, shrugging.

“Before Leicester, yeah?” Ben checks.

George just shrugs again.

“I don’t remember you mentioning anyone who stood out as ‘the one who got it’, so it must be,” Ben says decisively.

George arches an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you’d been paying so much attention to my dating history, Ben.”

“Aw, well sadly it’s been such a string of woes anyone even half decent for you would stand out,” Ben returns sharply.

“Ouch,” George winces as the lads cackle, wishing it felt entirely put on. “Tell me how you really think it’s gone, huh?”

“Look, you just said yourself you only have one decent ex, I’m not saying anything you didn’t already admit,” Ben says.

“I don’t think that’s quite how I phrased it,” George points out.

“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t what you said,” Ben argues. “Only one relationship where they’ve understood your job, before it was even a job... that’s not a great track record, mate.”

“I mean, nothing’s coming to mind from under 20s...,” JJ trails off mock thoughtfully. “Tell us the truth, Fordy: were you 5? Is that what you mean by a kid?”

“I started dating them when I was 13, and fuck you all,” George snaps, nettled - once again immediately wishing he’d kept his mouth shut.

There’s a general chorus of indistinct mocking - how George is practically still 13, how he can’t call that a relationship - through which George makes eye contact with a quiet Maro.

“Were you really obsessive enough that it was something to get back then?” Maro asks, seemingly genuinely curious. 

“Kinda,” George shrugs, buzzing with how much he wants to look at Owen, see if he’s put it together. With how much he can’t.

“You knew him back then Faz,” Anthony not-so-helpfully points out. “Was he that obsessed?”

“Well...,” Owen just allows the word to trail off, seems to think that’s enough.

“Oh fuck off, you were just as bad,” George says brazenly, making eye contact with Owen for the first time since indirectly calling theirs the one decent relationship he’s ever had.

“Yeah,” Owen admits, low, maintaining eye contact, “I was ridiculous, couldn’t see past it - and you got it.”

George looks away, has to in the face of that intensity. Fuck. Owen definitely knows that George was referring to him. But that’s... fine? Probably? Might turn out to be good? Fuck knows, George certainly doesn’t.

“Rugby families,” Maro chuckles, shaking his head.

“There’s no escape,” Owen laughs, throwing his arm around George’s shoulders to pull him in to the statement, leaving it on the seat behind George after the action.

George laughs like all his attention wasn’t on the firm warmth of Owen’s bicep around his neck, like it’s not now centred on the tentative brush of Owen’s fingers against his shoulder. “Doomed from the start,” George toasts, finishing off his beer.

“Doomed to an England jersey, how sad for you guys,” Anthony scoffs.

“It is, truly,” Owen agrees, shaking his head.

“You guys can’t even imagine,” George smirks, slouches a little more to allow his head to rest on Owen’s arm. He can play this game too, if they’re going to.

“Doomed to an England jersey but no girlfriend, is that about the size of it then Faz?” Ben asks, tries again when Owen doesn’t immediately reply. “Too much rugby for dating, is Fordy right?”

George feels Owen sigh at the word ‘girlfriend’, moves to press their knees together once more - then shifts further, so the lengths of their thighs are brushing.

“Well, truth be told I reckon Fordy was trying to shield me - which I do appreciate mate, Maro,” Owen says casually as he squeezes George’s shoulder, nods to Maro. If it weren’t for the strength with which he gripped George’s shoulder, the shift in his weight on the sofa as he tenses, George would never guess he was about to say something as big as he knows he is, must be, about to. “But it’s just not the easiest to find guys to date when you’re not publically out as gay,” he shrugs. “It limits my options a fair bit, even though the Sarries know now - and try way too hard to set me up.”

“Oh god,” George chokes, appalled. “I feel for you; Ben’s tried to set me up before - rugby players are not built for match making.”

“Terrible!” Owen exclaims. “Every single one, terrible! How is it even possible?”

“Hey, you still go on the dates!” Maro points out.

It’s only been a few moments but George can’t help but notice that it’s only the three of them who already knew making conversation, as casual as they’re trying to keep it. Owen keeps flicking quick glances at the others, and George knows he’s just as bad, even catches Maro doing the same. The defensiveness he sees in the set of Maro’s jaw reassures him - Owen’s picked a good way to do this. However big a decision he has made - if he’s stopping here and letting whatever rumours may result spread naturally, if he’s going to keep dropping comments until the whole team knows, whatever he’s planning - this is a good way to start it.

“That sounds a bit serious, mate,” George feigns concern. “Just how many of these dates have you been on?”

“Too many,” Owen moans. “I just keep thinking, you know, the lads are decent, surely they know some decent blokes? But no. Not a one,” he shakes his head. “I’ve been set up with three straight guys!” 

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” George shakes his head.

“ _Three_ straight guys?” Ben asks, incredulous. “How many of these dates _have_ you been on?”

Everyone laughs a little more than the moment calls for, Anthony and JJ taking Ben’s first move as their cue to rejoin the conversation. They’re clearly trying not to be awkward, bless.

“Are you looking to expand your dating pool, then?” JJ asks. “You want us to start finding you guys to date, is that it?”

“No!” Owen barks, so loud and seemingly involuntary that George really does crack up this time.

“Is that not how George knows?” Anthony asks, playing into the joke. “You didn’t call him in a fit of lonely desperation and ask for the names of all the single gay guys he knows?”

Owen laughs, relaxing back into the sofa. “Nah, Georgie was lucky enough to be there for the original crisis,” he informs them, open, dropping his arm to curl around George’s shoulder properly again, giving him a quick squeeze. “I might give it a shot if he’s got a guy in mind, though,” Owen adds, offhand, directly to George. 

George bites his lip to hide a smile. “Might have one,” he says, careless as he can. “We’ll see.”

“Hope so,” Owen near on purrs - and damn it, who lets his voice do that? 

George bites down harder on his lip, glances down at his lap. He really hopes he’s not imagining this, not projecting. More so - because he’s not, he knows Owen, knows he’s not - he hopes this isn’t just light hearted fun for Owen. The man likes to flirt, George knows it, but this doesn’t feel aimless.

“Shit, you guys were super close then,” Ben says, surprise evident in his voice. “I always figured you just chatted about rugby without pause for breath, not like - sexuality.”

George and Owen laugh. “There was a bit of that, to be fair,” Owen admits.

“The sexuality chats were while kicking, if it helps,” George grins.

“Oh god, don’t remind me,” Owen cries, bringing a hand up to hide his face.

George just laughs, letting himself slip freely into the memories this time. 

Owen’s increasingly shitty kicking one session, the eventual bullied confession that he had a crush on a guy and was freaking out about his family, his future. It was the week later, when it happened again, that George found out that he was the cause of the crisis. 

“You wouldn’t look at me,” George ribs. “Just kept looking between the ball and the posts, didn’t make eye contact for about 10 minutes.”

“Is that where it started?” Anthony asks immediately. “That was it, one awkward chat and you could never stop triple, quadruple checking the line between the ball and the posts.”

“Hey!” Ben says, realisation clear in his eyes, when the general laughter has died down. “If you guys were that close you must know who Fordy was talking about - he was like 13 when you guys knew each other, right?”

“Something like that,” Owen agrees, non committal, as George groans that the subject’s been brought back up.

“So you must know the ex who understood all the non-existent rugby training that Fordy was committed to, who at _13_ was the best relationship he’s ever had?” Ben prods.

“Ah, he never mentioned how old he was when it ended,” Maro points out shrewdly. “Said he was 13 ‘when it started’, nothing else.”

George says nothing as four expectant faces immediately turn to him. Continues to say nothing as they continue to stare. 

He hopes they’re as happy as he would be to just sit there all night, because that might be how long it would take for him to even decide on an answer - let alone to decide if he wants to admit to his answer with Owen there. Owen knows it’s him, now, is even flirting, but George saying he’d consider their relationship ending at 18 while Owen saw it as nothing through juniors would still be awkward.

“Oh, come on!” Ben explodes eventually. “Why are you being so difficult? How have you never said anything about this before? Just answer the question!”

George is tempted to take pity on Ben, who seems to be actually upset George has never mentioned the relationship to him before - not that he could, without it being obviously Owen. But... “Which question?” he asks, innocent.

“When did you break up?” Ben demands.

George thinks for a second. “I was 13,” he says. It’s technically true - their only proper ‘break up’ was when George moved away. After that it was all undefined, whether George would call it a relationship or not.

“Thank you!” Ben exclaims. “Was that so hard?”

“Maro, mate, I think George has just thrown away all your hard work in trying to bail him out,” Anthony says. “You were _13_ for the whole of your best relationship?”

“Did I say that?” George asks mildly. 

“It is pretty sad,” JJ helpfully contributes.

“Do I know who it is?” Owen asks, sudden.

George turns to look at him, frowning a little. “You know you do,” he answers, low, pressing their thighs firmly together to underline his point. He’d thought his answer solid fact, not something Owen could react to either way. He hadn’t expected it to make him doubt.

“Just checking,” Owen grins suddenly, so big George catches his breath. 

“You knew ‘em then?” Maro clarifies - an ambiguous pronoun George almost wishes he hadn’t caught.

“Fairly well, yeah,” Owen answers truthfully, laughter in his voice.

“What 13 year old girl, dated for less than a year, is still a lifetime best relationship in your mid-20s - please describe this magical ex,” JJ implores.

“I never said best relationship,” George points out. “That’s come straight from Ben.”

“Aw, careful Georgie, they’ll be upset,” Owen teases.

George just glowers, not letting the continued return of a nickname he’s barely heard since juniors distract him from how much Owen is enjoying this.

“You did say ‘the only one who got it’, to be fair,” Ben points out. “That was your exact phrase - and that sounds a lot like ‘best’ to me. I still don’t understand how there was anything to get at that age, but...”

“Ah, to be fair to Fordy he could’ve said 18 for the end,” Owen says suddenly. “I can see why he said 13-”

“-It was exactly the right answer for the question asked,” George says swiftly, trying to give something back to Owen in return for him making the leap George couldn’t. George just couldn’t call all that a relationship, to Owen’s face, without knowing for sure if he’d ever considered it more than stress relief. He couldn’t, but he’s stupidly happy Owen’s made that leap - especially stupidly given how long ago it was, but, well. Best relationship. He figures it’s justified.

“It was,” Owen nods, accepting this - and showing George he didn’t take it to heart. George thinks. “But in your defence, to these judgmental assholes - you could’ve said 18.”

George inclines his head, accepting Owen’s point. He leans forward to put his empty beer bottle down, settles more firmly into Owen’s side as he leans back.

“Man, I am so lost,” JJ says. “You broke up when you were 13 but maybe also 18?”

“Oh fucking hell,” George mutters. He wants to leave it there, the impatience that’s been nagging at him suddenly boiling to a peak. He wants to stop talking around things with Owen sat next to him and just talk _to_ him, directly, figure out what all this touching is about. But he sees Ben straightening up, knows he’s not going to get away with leaving it. “Okay, you nosy buggers: started dating when I was 13, broke up. Various non-platonic things up until I was 18, it stopped. Happy? Can we move on now?” 

“D’you think that’s what’s gonna happen? Moving on? Leaving it behind?” Owen asks quietly - though George can tell Ben at least heard.

“I don’t think so, no,” George replies, rife with double meaning as he mainly eyes Ben, who clearly still bursting with curiosity, before sneaking a quick glance at Owen.

“Well I bailed you out once already,” Owen says, giving up his fight on a smile fond and happy enough to thrill through George. “You’re on your own now,” he finishes, crossing his legs at the ankle to tap his foot against the back of George’s ankle.

“Thanks so much,” George replies sarcastically.

“‘Various non platonic things’?” Ben asks. “That’s how you’re describing it?”

“Yep,” George says shortly, when it becomes clear Ben is waiting for a response.

“Well what does that mean?!” Ben demands.

“I think it might mean it’s none of your business,” Maro points out mildly.

“That’s mostly it, yeah,” George agrees.

“Is it romantic? Is it just sexual?” Ben tries next. “Were you holding hands and walking on beaches or were you just fucking for five whole years and never called it dating? At least that’d explain why you never talked to your teammates about it - you whore,” Ben finishes with a flourish, clearly trying to provoke George.

“Right, as fun as this has been,” Maro says, standing, before George can reply. “I can live without the intimate details of George’s teen years that Ben seems so desperate for, and I’m beat. Night guys,” he comes forward to clap Owen on the shoulder, gives George a look that reminds him of the care Maro had taken to mimic the pronouns George used, not just assume he’d been dating a girl, and leaves, taking JJ and Anthony with him. The other guys had left the room a few minutes ago, so it’s just George, Ben and Owen left.

“Are you not tired too, Ben?” George tries desperately.

“No, I could stay up all night if that’s what it takes,” Ben says darkly. “You’ve hidden this from me, and I will get to the bottom of it.”

George would ask what exactly Ben thinks ‘the bottom of it’ is, but frankly he’s too afraid of where more overdramatic statements might take them. “Owen,” George implores. “You’re tired, right?”

“Too entertained to sleep, sorry mate,” Owen grins, barely a sliver of guilt in his expression, buried under the amusement. “And I think we might have a conversation to have after all this, anyway.”

George tries to send Owen an exasperated look, but if the way Owen’s eyes light up in response is any indication he thinks he rather failed. George bites down on his lip, tries to bite down on the anticipation bubbling up inside him, that anticipation that Owen is mirroring right back at him. George has Ben to get through before he and Owen discuss the way they’re currently all over each other, he reminds himself. That should be enough to settle him down, he knows how relentless Ben can be, knows he’ll be asking about things George has never talked about. And yet...


	2. Chapter 2

“Right then,” George sighs, dragging his gaze from Owen to Ben. “What’s ‘the bottom of this’, what gossip do you want?” he asks bluntly.

“Where to even begin,” Ben ponders, rubbing his hands together. “Why did you break up?”

“I moved,” George tells him, figuring if he keeps his answers short maybe it’ll be over faster.

“How did you get back together?”

“Didn’t,” George smiles sunnily, before caving at Ben’s exasperated look. “We ended up spending some time together again, and just...,” George gestures wordlessly.

Ben mimics the gesture back at him. “Just what?”

“You’d make a good interviewer, you know. Won’t let anything drop,” George says pointedly. 

“That’s not an answer,” Ben replies, just as pointedly.

“Yeah, Georgie, how did you get things restarted?” Owen asks, all innocence, like he doesn’t know. 

They’d been sharing a room on an under 16s tour - been lucky enough to often end up rooming together, only rarely manipulating it - chatting late one night on beds pushed together and George had just kissed him. Mid conversation, no explanation, just wanted it and gone for it. Simple. Also, ridiculous and horny and not particularly easy to explain if Ben won’t just accept ‘we made out’ - which he probably won’t, even though there’s no better answer.

“I can’t believe Faz knows all this!” Ben exclaims, reading the subtext into Owen’s teasing grin and George’s lack of reply. “Was it a guy? Is that why you never told me? You know I don’t mind that you’re bi.”

“For fuck’s sake,” George sighs, exasperated. “Way to potentially out me, dickhead.”

“But Owen is-!” Ben protests, not quite actually finishing his justification. 

“What, and you think every guy in rugby who isn’t straight telepathically knows about each other, yeah?” George rolls his eyes. “Or is it that someone being gay makes it okay to out someone else to them, even when you _fucking know_ that no one else knows? Which option would you like to pick?”

“You were... You were friends! Are friends! You knew about Owen! I thought he knew!” Ben defends.

“I did to be fair,” Owen puts in.

“But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t _potentially_ shitty,” George stresses. “Don’t fucking out people, not behind their backs, not in front of their faces. Just don’t bring people’s sexualities up for them, it’s shitty,” George finishes, staring hard at Ben and hoping he’ll get the relevance to Owen. No, Owen didn’t ask the others not to mention it, so he’s probably not too fussed, but he still deserves a chance to come out on his own terms. “And anyway, that wasn’t why I didn’t tell you,” George adds, feeling slightly like he’s stepping off a soapbox.

“So... it was a guy?” Ben seeks to clarify, leaping at the chance to move on from the outing topic.

“Yeah,” George shrugs, feeling it jostle Owen. The very guy he’s talking about. George has a moment of disconnect - how on earth did he get himself into this situation?

“Is he how you know you’re bi?” Ben asks, bringing George sharply back to the conversation.

“What did I _just say_ about bringing people’s sexualities up for them?” George demands. “And no. I know you half don’t believe me ‘cause I date girls ‘cause it’s easier and safer,” George narrows his eye contact to a glare as Ben looks about to deny it. “But I just like guys, no special reason or case needed to know it.”

“I reckon you should stop bringing people’s sexualities up because you tend to be wrong, mate,” Owen says helpfully.

“Thanks,” Ben says flatly, staring moodily at the ground for a moment. 

George feels a touch of sympathy for him. It’s not Ben’s fault he doesn’t have a clue how to talk about sexuality, it’s not like rugby union’s the most open sport. Or, well. George almost sighs aloud as he realises just how good rugby is, for a high level sport, with Nigel Owens and Gareth Thomas. How did two men get to be ‘good’? He’s distracted from his musing as Ben seems to realise that George isn’t actually mad, and takes that as his invitation to restart the interrogation.

“So if you won’t tell me how you guys got back together-”

“-I told you, we didn’t,” George points out, but Ben just waves a dismissive hand.

“-you can at least tell me how you split up again,” Ben goes on, having talked over George’s protests. “I can’t believe you...,” Ben gesticulates again, “-whatever’d-”

“Fucked,” Owen provides, quietly.

“-for _five years_ , and there wasn’t a-” Ben cuts himself off with the most comical double take George has ever seen as what Owen said registers. “Fordy you absolute slut,” he cries, laughter in his voice. “You fucked this dude for _five years_ and didn’t call it a relationship?!”

“It wasn’t _five years_ ,” George grits out, glaring at Owen. “It was a couple of years before we spent time together again, then it was... on and off,” he settles on.

“So what, you fucked him on and off for _three_ years?” Ben asks, still laughing. “Just stringing him along without calling it anything while you saw other people, is that it?”

“ _No_ ,” George snaps, immediately regrets his ferocity.

“Ohhh, so you were _pining_ for him for three years while he strung you along, I see,” Ben says in a tone of condescending understanding. “Why’d you let him do that?”

“That’s not-” George struggles to defend. “It wasn’t-” he gives up. “It was on and off because we didn’t see each other much, that’s why- well, whatever,” he shrugs, not willing to state that that’s why it wasn’t more, not when Ben’s already miscast him as pining.

George hadn’t been, really. Hadn’t thought about it, the way you don’t when you’re young. He’d played rugby and gone to school, then played rugby and messed around with Owen, then he’d gone back to playing rugby and going to school, messaging Owen just like he did the rest of the lads - well, a touch more frequent. But George hadn’t known what he had while he had it. He had appreciated it in the moments, sure, on the tours, but hadn’t thought to miss it or question what it was. He’d just taken what was there.

“How’d you end up meeting again?” Ben asks, settling down a little into curiosity.

George opens his mouth, closes it. “Circumstances?” he tries, knowing Ben’s going to want more. He glances at Owen, eyes wide, not knowing what other answer he could give. There is nothing, without it seeming obvious.

“Don’t hold back for my sake,” Owen tells George, quietly, while Ben loudly complains about George’s evasion.

“Are you sure?” George checks, surprised.

Owen nods. “If he figures it out he figures it out,” he shrugs. “Doesn’t bother me - he’s your mate, your call.”

George nods, mulling the concept over, taking in the trust Owen has granted him - and Ben. George guesses it’s not too much of a step now Ben knows about Owen anyway, but he’s been so used to keeping this secret that it feels massive regardless. No one has ever known. It feels dramatic when he thinks it like that, but it’s just the facts. Their parents probably had an idea when they were kids, but they never flat out told them, and after they moved apart it had all stayed behind closed doors. 

No one has ever known, George thinks again, turning the concept over in his mind.

“-And now you’re not even _listening_ to me!” are the first words George hears when he tunes back into Ben’s complaining.

“Sorry,” George apologises meekly. He really does feel a little bad for never having told Ben about Owen - not that he could have, but still. It was a big part of his life he never mentioned to one of his closest friends, and Ben’s clear upset at the exclusion is the only reason he’s entertaining these questions in the first place. Talking around the point, starting to go in circles around the same questions - it’s been almost as frustrating for him as it seems to have been for Ben.

“So you won’t tell me how you met again, you won’t tell me how it ended-” Ben glares “-will you at least tell me why you _didn’t_ tell me at the time?”

“It’s all to do with those same circumstances,” George tells him, regretful, quirking an apologetic grin.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Ben explodes.

“...which I’m now just going to tell you about,” George then finishes, teasing.

“Oh... fuck you!” Ben swears again, sounding only mildly less annoyed.

“We met again through rugby,” George explains. “Which is why I never said anything, he played on the England junior teams too - I didn’t exactly want to out him. We hooked up on tours, at training camps, and otherwise just... didn’t,” he shrugs. “Didn’t ever talk about it, really, so it stopped when we stopped playing together.”

“Finally, an answer!” Ben exclaims. “Was that so hard?” he asks - George is half tempted to tell him that yes, it was, but knows he’d never get it. “So did you know him through rugby the first time?” Ben asks.

“School, rugby,” George shrugs again. “Bit of both. He was the year above me so we didn’t have classes together, but we both played for the school team.”

“An older boyfriend, Fordy, well done,” Ben congratulates, smirking.

“Guess I did pretty well for myself,” George accepts, shooting a sideways glance at a quiet Owen. He’s not as tense as he was before coming out to the whole group, but he’s certainly not as relaxed as he was earlier. Owen makes eye contact and smiles slyly when George looks a moment too long, but doesn’t fully relax. George slides his hand from his lap over to the outside of his leg, knocks the back of it against Owen’s thigh in an attempt at reassurance.

“So you knew him at school for a bit, then met up again through- oh,” Ben stops mid sentence, his jaw genuinely dropping. He stares at Owen for long seconds. Looks back to George. 

“You’ll catch flies,” George tells him, gesturing towards Ben’s open mouth. He’s gratified that their relationship is as easy to figure out as he’d always thought, that he was right to just flat out never mention it - not that it was really ever a conscious choice.

Ben snaps his mouth shut at the prompt but doesn’t seem to recover otherwise, his eyes flitting frantically from George to Owen and back again - making George hyper aware once again of just how they’re pressed together. 

“No more questions?” Owen asks, teasing. George glances his way and is glad to see that he’s relaxed once more. George feels a knot of tension release in him, too. He wouldn’t have said keeping their history secret was a burden - though so much of it being known had made it awkward on occasion - but there’s something nice about having someone finally know.

“It was-” Ben starts. “ _You_ were-” Ben gives up, just gestures wordlessly between the two of them.

“That’s not a question,” George points out, grinning, enjoying himself now.

“ _Faz_ was the guy you were talking about?” Ben asks, finally managing to complete a sentence.

George is tempted to ask something like ‘which guy’, but thinks maybe Ben’s been through enough teasing by now. “Yep,” he confirms.

“You dated _Faz_ for five years?” Ben sounds increasingly incredulous.

“I think we established that it wasn’t five years,” George points out.

“But... dating _Faz_ is the best relationship you’ve ever had?”

“I think we established that I never called it my best relationship,” George tells Ben flatly.

“Shh, I told you, you’ll upset me,” Owen raises his free hand to his chest to mimic offence.

“That must have been a fun conversation,” Ben realises.

“Fun for me,” Owen grins, gripping George’s shoulder briefly. 

“Just as fun as this one,” George says pointedly, carefully not reacting as Owen relaxes his grip and allows his fingers to brush deliberately against the bare skin of George’s upper arm. They used to play this game as juniors, teasing touches in front of the rest of the team, seeing what they could get away with. Owen almost always won.

George shifts his hand slightly between them, drags his knuckles back and forth on Owen’s thigh. They really need to talk, but George will take this touching as a statement of intent for now.

“Who knows?” Ben asks, and George groans at his inability to take a hint.

“You,” he says shortly, going back to the tactic of quick answers ending things faster.

“My parents, maybe my sisters,” Owen says.

George looks at him, surprised. “How much?” he asks.

“I told them pretty much right after you left,” Owen tells him.

“Heartbroken, were you?” Ben teases.

Owen ignores him, maintains eye contact with George. “Then they asked after you when we were in juniors and - I guess they got a rough idea,” he shrugs.

“I don’t think my family would be surprised,” George offers quietly. “When I told them I was bi my mum brought you up far too soon for it to be a coincidence, but...”

“I get it,” Owen nods when George runs out of words.

“It’s like I’m not even here,” Ben wonders aloud. “How did I not see it before?”

George groans, throwing his head back over Owen’s arm.

“Speaking of you not being here...,” Owen hints.

“I can barely believe you split up, what, six years ago?” Ben laughs, once again failing to spot the difference between good natured ribbing and genuine hints.

“I’m not 19,” George rolls his eyes, going on when Ben looks confused. “We only ‘split up’-” he makes air quotes with the hand not knocking against Owen’s thigh, “-when we were at school, when I was 13 - which we’ve _also_ already established.”

“So you really were just hooking up?” Ben asks, laughter in his voice. 

George has nothing to say to that. Was it just sex? He didn’t know himself, doesn’t know if Owen would have. He really didn’t think about it - the extra time they spent together, kicking after the others were done, wandering around the cities they’d been taken to; the extra messages in the off season, the times they almost managed to sort out meeting when he never thought to try with the others... He’d just not thought of how all of that interacted with what they were doing in their hotel rooms. It was something they’d just - done, and then they hadn’t. Looking back however... no, it probably wasn’t ‘just’ sex. 

“What, you were horny teenagers?” Ben goes on after George stays quiet. “Found a way to get off and leapt at it?”

“There are worse summaries of how things started again,” Owen joins in, mock thoughtful.

“Jumped you, did he?” Ben asks, eager to laugh as always. “Were you just that irresistible?”

“I think he thought so,” Owen grins.

Right, George isn’t have both of them getting at him. He sits forwards, twists so he can look Owen directly in the face. “I have four words for you,” George says deliberately. “Under 20s: Six. Nations.”

“Never said you weren’t irresistible too,” Owen winks, the kind of overdone outrageous flirt they’ve shared so many times in front of other people - the kind that really shouldn’t work as well as it does, yet George can’t quite stamp down on the smug glow Owen’s words generate.

“So you were _both_ desperate teenagers,” Ben mocks.

“Had to make the most of things, didn’t I?” Owen defends, not sounding at all regretful. “One of us might not have done the World Cup.”

“Yeah, one of us probably wouldn’t have done if you’d succeeded in outing us,” George points out wryly.

“What happened?” Ben asks, intrigued.

“He tried to kiss me - having forgotten about the two other players, and half the coaches, still in the same room,” George tells Ben.

“Had to make the most of it,” Owen insists again. “That could’ve been it.”

“That desperate for each other and you kept it all on tour? Never just... talked and met up outside it?” Ben asks, only slightly mocking.

“What, talking? As teenagers?” Owen laughs. “That would’ve required more thinking than we were doing. No, we never talked.”

“Not until today,” George says, quieter than he means to. He looks to his side to find Owen already staring at him intently. Why hadn’t they, again? He can’t remember now.

“Never?” Ben demands. “...Is this my cue to leave?” he asks after a few seconds, when neither George nor Owen have responded - or indeed looked away from each other.

“You’ve missed a couple of those already mate, to be honest,” Owen tells him good naturedly, finally looking away from George.

George shudders with the release of tension, smiling when he meets Ben’s wide eyes. “See you tomorrow, yeah?” he encourages.

“Uh, yeah,” Ben agrees, standing - looking nearly as shocked as he did when he first figured out that Owen and George had dated. Once again, George feels a touch of sympathy. He probably would be as bad if he found out that any of his other teammates had dated. Well, at least nearly. 

“See you tomorrow?” Ben echoes, still sounding unsure, glancing back over his shoulder before finally leaving the room.


	3. Chapter 3

George and Owen sit in silence for a few moments, before George releases an explosive breath. “Fucking hell,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face.

“What a conversation, hey?” Owen agrees, laughing quietly.

“Nice relaxing start to camp,” George chuckles. “I think you had it worse than me to be fair.”

“Ah, they eased off,” Owen shrugs - disregarding just what it was that had made them ease off. “I don’t think Ben knows the meaning of that phrase.”

“Nah, I don’t think he does,” George agrees, shaking his head fondly.

There’s another moment of quiet. George shifts away from Owen slightly, pulling a knee up onto the sofa and twisting to face him fully. “Are you doing this, then?” he asks.

“What’s ‘this’?” Owen smiles, all deflective charm, as he moves to mirror George.

“Coming out to the squad,” George replies, looking Owen straight in the eyes, not letting him get away with it.

It’s Owen’s turn to blow out a breath. “Think so,” he says, ducking his head and rubbing at the back of his neck. “Didn’t really think about it or like, have a plan, but I can’t keep avoiding it, especially now Sarries know. It’s just... exhausting,” he admits, looking up again. There’s tension heavy in his brow, distance in his eyes - George can see how it’s been wearing him down. “We’ll see how rumours spread from this, I guess,” Owen shrugs. “Or how many conversations about girls I have to excuse myself from.”

“Yeah, that shouldn’t take long then,” George says wryly. “Have you told the coaches?” he checks. It had been Owen’s first move before he’d started letting selected Saracens players know, and it’s always worth having them on side.

“Er,” is all Owen says.

George raises an eyebrow.

“I thought I’d try to get a meeting at some point this week!” Owen defends. “I just wasn’t planning it quite this soon.”

George just sighs, rolling his eyes. “Well, you might want to make that a higher priority,” he suggests.

“Yeah, I reckon so,” Owen agrees, sheepish. “You wanna keep me company?” he asks, offhand.

George is taken aback, hadn’t even considered connecting their conversation back to himself. He does, now. It would be better for Owen - even just having a teammate with him, on his side, would help. But any of the Saracens players could do that. George coming out too would be better for Owen. It would make him seem like less of an exception, or an anomaly to be catered to, even if George doesn’t have any plans to come out himself. It’s not that George expects trouble from the coaches, but extra support can never hurt. 

But George doesn’t think for a moment that either of those are why Owen asked.

Does he want to? That was the question Owen had asked. And George is honestly a little surprised to find that his answer is yes. Yes, he does. He’s not planning to come out to his fellow players - but then apparently neither was Owen, not this time, not really. And the idea of having people higher up in the sport know, people who could support him if needed, if anything ever did happen - it’s surprisingly appealing.

That said...

“I - yeah,” George admits. “But they’ll make assumptions if we call a meeting and come out together,” he goes on, feeling a little like it’s an excuse. 

Owen’s unimpressed expression suggests he thinks the same. “They’d probably ask, not just assume,” he points out.

“About that...” George trails off, looking down at his lap, not sure how to start that conversation. 

There’s a reason he started talking about Owen’s coming out, not their flirting. As intense and significant as it might have felt in the moment George now doubts everything looking back - he’d said Owen understood him when they were dating, and Owen had got a bit touchy, made a couple of suggestive comments. It suddenly seems like a big leap to try to have a whole conversation about their relationship status based on that. Joking and flirting around the point George can do, feels comfortable in, but direct communication off the pitch has never really been his strong point - and certainly never theirs.

Does George even know what he wants, when it comes down to it? He’s still attracted to Owen - and on more than just a physical level - but is dating a teammate, a rival, really a good idea? There’d be the distance to consider too - could it ever practically work?

“We could tell them whatever you want,” Owen interrupts George’s thought spiral. And George knows he isn’t just suggesting lying to the coaches, knows this is an offer, is Owen taking that first step into vulnerability once again.

“I don’t know...,” George trails off, gesturing aimlessly. He looks up from his lap but can only hold Owen’s gaze for a moment. “I don’t know,” he repeats, feeling useless, wanting to give Owen something back but not knowing what. He reaches out to take Owen’s hand where it rests on his knee, trying to at least convey that it’s not a total brush off, that he wasn’t just playing around earlier.

“Neither do I,” Owen admits. “But - tell me if I’m well off, but... we’ve still, got something,” he says, squeezing George’s hand. George looks up, this time caught by Owen’s intensity. “I don’t know where I’d find someone who understands as well as you do, as you always have.” It’s Owen’s turn to look away, just briefly, before he sets his jaw and goes on, “I don’t know where I’d find someone I want as much, and I’m kind of tired of looking. I want to give it a shot, is all,” Owen shrugs, winding down with the last sentence.

George doesn’t know how Owen can do that, put words to something they’ve kept silent between them for so long, be that openly honest. But then - maybe that was always their problem. They were in a romantic relationship for all intents and purposes during at least their last year as juniors, George can see that now. Maybe if they’d managed to put words to it, talk to each other, they could have have more, spent more time together - maybe Owen has realised that and this is him taking that step. 

“Yeah,” George just nods, feeling even more inadequate compared to Owen’s unexpected eloquence. “Yeah, I’d like to give it a shot.”

“Good,” Owen grins, wide, looking a little daft with it.

“Good,” George repeats, grinning back. 

George squeezes Owen’s hand after a moment of shared staring, uses it as leverage to lean in for their first kiss in years. He initially intends to keep it light - aware that they are still in a public space, late as it is - but that flies out of his brain pretty quickly. Owen makes a little sound seconds after their lips brush and that’s it, George is gone. He stops thinking about where they are, stops thinking at all, just pours into the kiss how much he really does want this. Words he’s not great at - though he’ll learn, he’ll try - but they’ve been communicating with their bodies for years.

George raises his free hand to Owen’s shoulder, skims it up his neck to run a thumb along Owen’s jawline. He lingers there for a moment, repeating the motion when it makes Owen shiver. George feels like shivering too, truth be told, the familiar angles of Owen underneath his hands again after all this time feeling slightly unreal. Instead of giving in to the urge George shifts his hand to the back of Owen’s neck, leans in closer, opens his mouth to deepen the kiss.

God, Owen even _kisses_ like he remembers - single minded, with purpose, the same way he does everything else. George can’t quite believe that this is happening. He feels a little desperate, kissing Owen with far more urgency than he’d initially intended, but he’s not sure he could hold it back even if he did want to. That feeling of desperation - the slight edge of embarrassment he’s trying to ignore - is only compounded when Owen pulls away and George finds himself chasing his lips, lets out a whine of disappointment before he can think.

“We probably shouldn’t do this here,” Owen says, quite sensibly.

George is glad to hear that his voice is a touch rough, glad to note that he hasn’t pulled back very far despite his words. “Probably not,” George agrees, but doesn’t move.

They sit like that for a long beat. George’s hand still on the back of Owen’s neck, Owen still holding George’s upper arm. Bodies tilted towards each other, breathing the same air.

Owen leans in, slow, dropping his hand from George’s arm to his leg to support his weight as he tilts forwards. He kisses George slowly this time, deliberate. His hand flexes on George’s thigh as George matches his pace, and now it’s George’s turn to shiver. They really shouldn’t do this here. It takes him long moments but George manages to pull back, moving his hand off Owen’s neck, and this time they retreat fully out of each other’s space. They’re still holding hands on Owen’s knee, and Owen’s settled his other hand on George’s opposite knee, but they’ve managed to break the bubble.

“D’you want to come back to mine?” George offers, voice low. He’s not even sure if he means for sex, just knows he wants to keep kissing Owen, doesn’t want their surroundings, something outside of their desires, to be the thing making them stop.

Owen’s hand flexes again. “Not... tonight,” he replies, reluctant. “It really is late now,” he points out. “And we should try to speak to the coaches early tomorrow.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” George reassures Owen, though he can’t deny a sting of disappointment.

“Well no, I don’t think Eddie would be too impressed if you did,” Owen jokes. “This is a terrible time to do this,” he then mutters, seemingly to himself.

“What we did before was worse,” George shrugs, though he gets Owen’s point. “And I think we’ve just proved there’s a fairly solid basis to work on,” he points out - meaning their open conversation as much as their chemistry.

“We can’t let this mess with the Six Nations,” Owen says seriously, still caught on that.

“It won’t,” George reassures him again. Whether it’ll work out or not he doesn’t know, but he can’t imagine things falling through so badly over two months that it messes with the years of co-ordination they’ve built on the pitch. Even if they did fall apart he knows himself, and he knows Owen: England comes first. “If it does, we raincheck, maybe we try again in the offseason. We can delay this now, if you want,” George offers, thinking himself an idiot all the while. “I’m not going anywhere,” he reiterates, serious.

“No, you’re right,” Owen nods slowly. “Rugby first, don’t know how I forgot that you get that,” Owen smiles apologetically.

“It’s my main appeal,” George grins wryly.

“It’s not,” Owen replies quickly, serious. “It’s... you know, of course, you get it, you understand it, me, that matters, but... it’s not.”

“No, my main appeal is how long it’s been since you’ve got laid,” George jokes, hoping that one will land better.

“Getting laid is not the problem,” Owen objects, leaning back to stretch obnoxiously. George hates how well it works, rolling his eyes at Owen’s smug expression when he manages to raise his eyes from Owen’s body to his face. 

“Ugh, sorry, that just made me realise how tired I really am,” Owen says apologetically, face collapsing into a grimace when he’s done basking in George’s reaction.

“I don’t know about you but I’m gonna need my sleep before talking to the coaches,” George admits.

“Not to mention training itself,” Owen points out.

“Ah, that’ll be easy,” George waves a dismissive hand.

“Think you might regret saying that mate,” Owen laughs, standing and offering a hand to pull George up.

George takes it, lets himself be tugged in a little closer than is strictly necessary.

“Hello,” Owen smiles, close and warm.

“Hi,” George tilts his head, leans in for the kiss Owen is so clearly angling for, but keeps it short. “Doing this out here is a really bad idea,” he points out as he steps back.

“Yeah,” Owen grimaces. “That’d be one hell of a way to come out to people.”

“Could be fun,” George muses. “Ben’s face was quite something.”

“It really was,” Owen chuckles, falling into step with George as they head back to their rooms. 

“But I don’t want to come out,” George says, serious, wanting to make sure Owen understands, doesn’t have any expectations he can’t meet.

“I know,” Owen reassures him. “I’ve been on the other side of this conversation a couple of times, don’t worry, I get it.”

“You do,” George smiles at him sideways, his smile growing when Owen blushes a little and ducks his head. That’s going to be such an obnoxious inside joke.

They walk in silence the rest of the distance to George’s door, pause outside it. George looks up and down the corridor - quiet. The rooms are actually fairly soundproof, no one should be able to hear whatever goodbyes they exchange.

“Thanks for walking me home,” George says, mock flirtatiously. “Sure I can’t convince you to come inside?” he asks, dropping the ‘mock’ as he tilts his head towards his door, looking up at Owen through his lashes.

“Menace,” Owen scolds softly, shaking his head. “It’s like 5 hours until we have to get up,” he points out - but he does take George up on his unspoken invitation, swaying in close for a peck goodnight.

George gets a hand on the top of Owen’s neck, burrows his fingers into the short hairs there, hauls him back in to do a proper job of it. He goes slow, not wanting to heat things up when Owen clearly doesn’t. Owen moves with him more readily than George had quite expected, and he finds himself pressed between his own hotel room door and Owen’s chest. George raises his second hand to Owen’s shoulder, grips and transfers his weight there as he slides the first further up through Owen’s hair. Owen finds space for his hands at the small of George’s back, pulls him in impossibly closer. For as tightly as they’re pressed together the kiss stays light, soft, lips sliding together, breaking and returning time and again, until Owen takes a half step back - it doesn’t leave them very far apart.

“I missed you,” George admits, quiet, squeezing Owen’s shoulder briefly before he manages to convince himself to let go.

“I’m right here,” Owen smiles, small - departs without another word.

George catches himself before he quite sighs at Owen walking away, turning to let himself into his hotel room rather than watch Owen go. He had missed Owen. Between the end of juniors, the speed with which those messages had faded away, and being back on an England squad - he’d missed him. Even at the start of his senior England career it had been difficult, the two of them cautious around each other. They’d gotten over it fairly quickly, reformed that solid friendship - Owen had asked George for his thoughts when he wanted to come out to the Saracens, George had told Owen when he was first thinking about going back to Leicester; they’d been close. But George thinks he can feel, now, the edge of caution that had remained between them. That little barrier, that one thing they never talked about, identifiable mainly in its absence. George doesn’t think he’ll miss it.


	4. Chapter 4

George is one of the first down to breakfast that morning, Owen having texted him that he was already up and trying to find Eddie to organise a meeting. It’s probably good that he is, and that everyone else is still half asleep, because he keeps catching himself smiling down at his food like a lovesick teenager. As it is, no one notices, and George is just finishing off his breakfast when Ben sits down next to him. Ben looks just as asleep as Mako, a couple of seats away on George’s other side, but George knows Ben better than to think that that would stop him when he sees an opportunity for teasing.

“Have a good night?” Ben asks, smirking.

There’s a small part of George that wants to hit him for being obvious, tell him to take this seriously damn it. “Brilliant, thank you,” he replies instead, letting his greeting smile turn smug, laying it on thick.

Ben’s shocked face lands better than any punch George might have fantasised about. George isn’t sure if his lack of immediate follow up question is proof that he really is taking this seriously, or if it’s down to the early hour. 

A hand on George’s shoulder interrupts before Ben can find words either way, and George twists around to see Owen, finds himself smiling before he even thinks about it. “Morning,” he greets.

“Good morning,” Owen smiles back, nods briefly to the others at the table before lowering his voice. “We can meet with Eddie literally now, or everyone in two days time - funnily enough we all seem to have busy schedules coming up.”

“Can’t wait,” George gripes, standing. “You went with now, yeah?” he checks, having just assumed they were on the same wavelength.

“Yeah,” Owen nods. “‘course.”

George says a general goodbye to the table, unable to resist ruffling Ben’s hair when he takes in his wide eyed look. “Behave,” he warns briefly, reassured by the genuine flicker of offence across Ben’s face.

They fall into step easily as they cross the dining room and walk the short distance to Eddie’s office.

“How’re you feeling?” George checks.

“Yeah, good,” Owen nods. “It’s good to have you with me,” he takes a long moment to smile at George, something secret in it. “But mostly I remember how good it felt to do this at Sarries,” Owen goes on, “so I’m kinda looking forward to it. How are you feeling?” 

“Not so good,” George admits. He’d been fine at Owen’s text, pretty much fine through breakfast, but now they’re actually walking to Eddie’s office the nerves are hitting hard. No one in the sport has ever known outside of Owen and Ben, none of the coaching staff at any level - or at least he hadn’t know that Andy Farrell had, and his dad hadn’t known while he was actually George’s coach. Coming out to Eddie - his _national_ coach, with a boyfriend - who’s also on the team, who he started dating again less than 12 hours ago... it feels like about 5 big steps at once.

“You don’t have to stick to anything you said last night, just whatever you’re happy with. You can be here to support me, that’s great,” Owen reassures him.

“I’m mostly worried about-” George gestures between the two of them, slowing his steps as they approach Eddie’s office.

Owen nods, understanding. “We never really talked about that,” he smiles wryly before becoming serious once more. “I’m happy to follow your lead still, but - it’s big, definitely. I need to do this, you want to, but _we_ don’t have to, yeah?”

“I just really don’t know how it’d go,” George worries, bringing them to a standstill at what seems like a safe distance from Eddie’s door. “That seems like the bit that’d actually change things, you know? With the two of us I reckon we’ll be fine, like, individually, but... And it’s so new. Kind of.” It’s George’s turn to quirk a smile, trying to lighten Owen’s serious expression.

Owen smiles back, but it’s clearly distracted as he thinks over George’s words. “Yeah, I think... Yeah,” he repeats, nodding. “If the team aren’t going to know they don’t need to - it’s not their business really. I don’t want to lie,” he warns. “But it’s not their business.”

“Just try to talk around it?” George suggests. “It’s what I was going to do with Ben anyway.” 

“Yeah? Good luck with that one,” Owen says, laughter in his voice. “I reckon Eddie’ll be much easier to talk around.”

“You might be right there,” George accepts, following just a touch reluctantly as Owen moves those final few steps closer to Eddie’s door.

“Ready?” Owen checks.

George just nods, suddenly tense again even though the stakes have - thankfully - dropped. He doesn’t think, really, that it’ll go any differently to Owen coming out to the Sarries coaching staff - a bit of surprise, a ‘thank you for telling us’, and - if they’re lucky - maybe even an offer to mediate if there’s trouble. But he doesn’t know, can’t know, and he’s not done this - coming out - often enough for it to stop being terrifying - if that’s ever achievable.

Owen knocks.

Eddie calls them in practically instantly.

George takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders. Follows Owen inside. 

They’d seen Eddie last night at the team dinner, so there’s no need for an exchange of pleasantries - and George doubts he has much time to spare anyway.

“So what can I do for you boys?” Eddie asks once they’ve sat down.

“I’m gay,” Owen says, straight up. 

George watches but Eddie doesn’t even blink, shows no reaction.

“The Saracens players know,” Owen goes on after only a heartbeat’s pause. “I haven’t necessarily told every guy individually, but I don’t avoid talking about it anymore. I’ll do the same here - I came out to three guys last night, it’s probably already spreading. I should’ve talked to you before,” Owen offers, the first time there’s any give in his words, “but I wasn’t really planning it that much.”

Through the whole thing Eddie gives no reaction, which George admires almost as much as the monologue itself. He flicks his gaze back to Owen and finds his face just as set and steadfast as his words. There was no give, no apology. No ‘I’m thinking of coming out’, no suggestion that there might be trouble that he could be considered the cause of, no doubt in his actions. Owen just told Eddie what was happening, gave him no room for objection. George wonders if he’s learnt from Sarries, or if he was like that with them initially too. 

“Thank you for telling me now,” Eddie replies. “You seem to have things well sorted, but please don’t hesitate to let us know if we can support you in any way.”

George blows out a quiet breath in relief, sees Owen sink a centimeter in his seat as he relaxes. Even better than Saracens. They hadn’t offered that level of support, never mind that immediately - been more caught up in surprise from what Owen had said.

“And are you here to support Owen, George?” Eddie asks.

All of that relief evaporates in an instant. Eddie’s face is perfectly blank, no hint of expectation to play into or be pressured by. He’s good at this. George wishes that were enough to make it easy.

“Yeah,” George glances at Owen, who just smiles supportively as the pause drags on. No expectation there either - how do they do it? “And -” George takes a breath, looks back to Eddie. “I’m bi. I’m not planning on coming out to the team, but thought it couldn’t hurt for you to know.”

“Certainly not,” Eddie smiles genially. “Thank you for that trust.”

George nods, sinking down in his own seat now, feeling slightly empty. 

“Should we set up that meeting with the rest of the team in a few days, or would you be happy for me to pass this information on for you?” Eddie offers. “Or, of course, it can stay between us and whoever else you choose to inform,” he adds as the two of them exchange a glance. “If you’ve changed your minds or I was wrong in thinking you wanted to meet with all of us that’s no problem.”

“No - I think we’re happy for you to tell them for us?” Owen replies, once again glancing at George to check.

George just nods, stamping down on the urge to ask Eddie to keep it just between them. In theory, the idea is appealing - people to know, to back him if necessary, to just not feel like part of himself is constantly hidden from. In reality, it’s a little more scary, and he certainly can’t imagine having this meeting sat in front of more people, as well as it may have gone. Ultimately he does think it will be worth it, to have groundwork in place if he ever does choose to come out, to have people understand if a turn of conversation makes him quiet - but that doesn’t mean it’s not intimidating to do.

“Could you tell us who you’ve told, when you’ve told them?” George asks.

“Absolutely,” Eddie agrees at once, goes on to confirm with them exactly who he considers ‘the rest of the team’, who he will tell.

A knock comes on the door as they agree the last name. “Two minutes,” Eddie’s assistant calls through the door.

“I guess that’s our cue,” Owen smiles, standing and reaching across the desk to shake Eddie’s hand.

“Unless there’s anything else you would like to ask, or tell me?” Eddie offers, only standing to take Owen’s hand when Owen shakes his head.

George follows Owen’s lead, aware that this would be the perfect moment to bring up that they’re dating, but not feeling even a little bad about letting it slide. His head is spinning with how quickly it’s gone, and the only thing left to say is: “Thank you,” as sincerely as he can, when Eddie takes his hand.

“No problem,” Eddie smiles. “And boys-” he calls after them as they approach the door. “Do come to us if you have any trouble, whether you can deal with it or not - you don’t have to.” Eddie makes eye contact with them both in turn. “Whether it’s about you guys or more general, we want to know.”

“Thank you,” Owen replies, inclining his head - George just nods.

“Have a good day now,” Eddie smiles in clear dismissal.

George lets out a long breath the instant the door is closed behind them, amused to hear Owen doing the same.

“Well I think that might’ve been my best coach meeting ever,” Owen says, baffled.

George laughs harder than the moment calls for, shaky, half relief. They’ve done it. “Did not expect it to go that well,” he agrees, shaking his head, as they wander back the way they came. “I thought there’d be at least a moment of surprise.”

“Ah, it’ll take more than that to break Eddie’s poker face,” Owen grins.

George laughs gently, leans over to knock their shoulders together. “I can think of something that might work,” he teases, smirking as he holds eye contact.

“Yeah,” Owen smiles warmly. “You wanna go back in there and try it?”

“I’m alright thanks,” George tells him.

Owen just laughs. “Yeah, me too.” They’ve almost reached the door of the dining room by this point, and Owen inclines his head towards it. “I need some food, keep me company?” he suggests.

“Alright,” George agrees readily. He tucks away a smile and carefully doesn’t point out that there are plenty of rugby players, friends, in there who could keep Owen company perfectly well. “Too busy tracking Eddie down to eat, were you?” he asks.

“Pretty much,” Owen agrees. “Never mind poker, he could be a master of hide and seek.”

“Been called into the headmaster’s office already boys?” Dan calls out when they’ve taken only a few steps into the dining room, George laughing at Owen’s side - George can only assume Ben’s told him.

“Called myself in,” Owen tells him, equally loud, after a moment’s pause. “I’m gay, thought Eddie should know before I tell you lot - you know, in case you’re pricks.”

“Well that’s one way to do it,” George mutters into the quiet that follows.

“Reckon that’s over half the lads at one time, much easier than going one by one,” Owen shrugs, talking to George at a normal volume - therefore a volume everyone can hear.

“You’ve known me for years Faz,” Mako begins, offence in his voice. 

George tenses, faster than he would’ve thought possible without a ball coming at him. Mako is a Saracen, Mako knows - doesn’t he? Surely he does, there’s no way he can’t, no reason for him to be reacting like this.

“Are you really telling me you thought I’d be a prick?” Mako finishes.

George relaxes. 

“Ah, it’s _because_ he’s known you for years that he thought that,” Maro teases - and once again, a group jumps on banter to avoid dwelling on the coming out. It’s normal, easy - apart from the glances guys are giving Owen, just assessing, just checking, filtering the new information in. George sends them the same glances back, raises an eyebrow at the couple who don’t immediately look away on being caught staring, glad when that is all it takes to make them back down.

“Team first is the way, huh?” George mutters to Owen as they move to sit down - George following Owen to some free seats by a cluster of Saracens.

“Seems it,” Owen says. “They’re good lads.”

“Great lads,” George agrees. “You’ve realised that coming out to England is coming out to like, the whole premiership at least, yeah?”

Owen shoots him a look. “Luckily, I have,” he says, dry. “Reckon some of them might not be too surprised anyway, pretty sure it’s been spreading,” he shrugs.

“There’s been nothing said in Leicester, or was at Bath,” George assures him. “Not in front of me.”

“I know, I know you’d’ve told me,” Owen assures George in turn.

“Didn’t realise you were going to go that big, mate,” Maro says, leaning in to their conversation, gesturing to where Owen had made what could only be described as an announcement.

“Just had the opportunity,” Owen shrugs. “Wasn’t really planning it all that well.”

“I’ll say,” George adds wryly.

Owen glares at him, no heat to it. “No plan’s worked out okay so far,” he points out - and George can’t really argue.

“You didn’t think to tell our captain first, like at Sarries?” Maro asks, nodding to where Dylan is quietly eating breakfast.

George shoots Maro a skeptical look before he can stop himself, only to find him wearing the exact same expression already.

“Didn’t know you knew about that,” Owen says, surprised.

“It was obvious,” Maro dismisses, leaves it clear that he’s still waiting for an answer.

“Hey!” Owen finally takes in George and Maro’s matching expressions. “I could’ve done, it would’ve been fine.”

“Probably,” George agrees readily. “But would it have been as fine as Eddie? Would you have done it alone?” he asks, all he thinks he needs to to make his point. It’s not really a fair comparison - Owen had told Brad alone mostly out of necessity. He’d needed an authority and support built in amongst the players, but with Saracens already told and so heavily capped between them, that role was filled, whether Dylan would’ve been particularly good at it or not. 

Owen is silent for a long moment before pulling a face that is all the answer George needs. “Oh, man, I need to eat,” he says suddenly, a show of remembering George doesn’t for a minute believe is anything other than an escape. Still, George lets him go, sharing another look with Maro - smug this time.

“Tell me he at least isn’t having seconds to avoid answering?” Maro implores, startling George into laughter.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set in the first week off of the tournament - after wins over Italy and Wales when ~~we all still had hope~~ Owen didn’t train due to an unspecified injury.

It feels strange to practice at Twickenham without Owen. George thinks it probably shouldn’t; he’s been here without Owen before, even been here playing against him, but that doesn’t change how he feels. Owen hadn’t been able to practice earlier in the week, either, but he’d at least been there, fetching balls back for George when he kicked, giving the lads a good ribbing when the opportunity arose. Today there’s none of that, just the low rumble of spectators marking another difference to the occasion. 

Training passes in a blur, edged with that sense of strangeness, working hard enough that there isn’t really time to think. It’s afterwards that seems to drag on, the signing session taking as long as training itself. George doesn’t mind though, he like seeing the fans, the kids who come along who might not otherwise be able to see live rugby. He knows how important rugby has been in his life, how formative it was - still is - for him, and he likes to imagine that some of those kids are the same. 

Eventually the day is done, and with it training for the week. There are lads lingering for a chat in the changing rooms, discussing weekend plans, but George ducks out without getting involved. They wouldn’t really want to know, he thinks to himself as texts Owen to let him know he’s about to drive over. George has a kitbag in his boot with enough clothes and kit that he could stay the weekend without needing to go home before the next week’s training, and an open ended invitation. 

George focuses on the traffic through the drive to Owen’s, trying not to overthink the weekend before it really begins. They’ve spent so much time together over the last few weeks, but it’s been mostly by necessity, in training, surrounded by twenty or thirty other guys. It’s not all been that, not by a long shot - George shifts in his seat as he remembers their post-Italy celebrations, tucked away in Owen’s room at Pennyhill Park the night before training for Wales began - but it’s still enough that choosing to spend time together feels like a novelty. George is looking forward to it, in itself. It’s the significance he can’t help but assign to it that’s making him nervous.

After a longer drive than he expected George pulls up outside Owen’s place, double checking the house number and the parking instructions Owen had texted him. He’s in the right place, parked in the right spot. So far so good. He takes a deep breath as he gets out the car, glancing around as he takes his kitbag from his boot and nodding politely at a man going past. He walks up to Owen’s front door and knocks sharply, twists the strap of his bag in his hands as he glances around once again, stopping himself when he realises. He’s not there to rob the place, for goodness sake, there’s no need to check for witnesses. Thankfully Owen comes to the door before George can examine that particular reaction too deeply.

“Hiya,” Owen greets, face creasing into a smile.

“Hi,” George returns the smile, ducking his head. “Alright?” he asks.

“Not too bad mate, yeah,” Owen nods, stepping back and gesturing for George to come in.

“Cheers,” George says, stops in the hallway as Owen shuts the door behind them.

“So, uh, can I take your bag?” Owen asks, all polite host. “There’s a chest of drawers in the guest room if you wanna unpack, or we can dump it in mine?”

“Oh, whatever,” George shrugs. He’s stayed in enough hotels for enough single nights that he’s used to living out of a bag, couldn’t really care less. He hands his bag over when Owen reaches for it, a bit flustered by his formality.

“Oh, d’you want a drink?” Owen offers, pausing at the bottom of the stairs, by what appears to be the door to the kitchen. “Tea, water, whatever?”

“I’m good,” George tells him, following Owen up the stairs.

“Bathroom’s here, or I’ve got an en suite,” Owen gestures as they walk past. “That’s the guest room,” he nods to a door standing just ajar on the opposite side of the hall. “And this is me,” he finishes, walking in to set George’s bag down by the wall to the right hand side of his bed - the way they’d always split rooms in juniors.

George looks around interestedly - the room’s neat, neater than he might have expected. “Is it always this tidy?” he teases.

“Uh, almost,” Owen grins sheepishly. “I’m not too bad!” he insists, and George has to concede the point. He’s certainly shared with far worse. There’s a moment of silence. George glances around the room again, looks to Owen to find him doing the same. There must be so many things they could say, but neither of them seem to have any coming to mind. “Are you sure I can’t get you tea?” Owen offers again.

“I’m good,” George assures him, regrets it when he realises that would have given them something to do. 

“Right,” Owen nods, leads them back downstairs. George bites his lip as the silence starts to drag on. 

“I don’t know how long you wanted to stay?” Owen asks, while they’re on the stairs. “You can stay the whole weekend if you want, borrow some of my kit for training if you need - but I get that you might want to take advantage of the time off,” Owen’s talking quickly, barely giving George half a chance to respond before tacking the qualification on. 

It suddenly hits George that Owen is nervous too, that’s what the formality is all about. They’re both treating a weekend together like it’s something they’ve never experienced before. George almost wants to laugh when he realises, relaxing at understanding that they both want this, care about it, enough to be nervous. At understanding that they’re both being ridiculous.

“No, I brought kit,” George smiles at Owen’s back, response only a touch delayed by his musing. “Thought staying here was taking advantage of the time off,” he offers.

“Yeah?” Owen’s smile is small and pleased as he reaches the bottom of the stairs and turns to face George.

“Yeah,” George affirms, taking a step closer and leaning up to kiss him briefly.

Owen hums, warm, and slips an arm around George’s waist as he steps back. “Good,” he says happily, kissing George once again. They smile at each other for a few moments before Owen steps back. “Come sit,” he invites, leading George into his lounge and settling on the sofa. 

George sits next to him, close, suppressing another smile as Owen immediately throws an arm over the back of the seat behind him. He’s been doing that at Pennyhill Park, too, and the familiar action eliminates the last of the awkwardness George had been trying to deny. This is just them, in a new setting. Nothing to worry about.

“So how was training, coaches say anything I need to know about?” Owen asks interestedly, proving George’s point.

George twists a little further towards Owen, pressing their knees together in a move he might not make at Pennyhill Park, and settles in to answer at length.

~~~

It's a few hours later that George stirs, coming around to the low hum of the TV - and not the news he closed his eyes to. He stirs himself more determinedly, blinking once, twice, realising that the cushion he's resting his head on - mostly sideways, ow - is oddly warm. And bony. Ah. He's fallen asleep on Owen in the first extended span of time they get alone together, isn’t that wonderful. He just hopes he hasn't drooled.

“Sorry,” George mutters, more blearily than he had intended, sitting up. He swipes a hand across his mouth and thanks every deity he's ever heard of when it comes away dry.

“‘S’alright,” Owen shrugs slightly. “You said training was tough.”

“Yeah,” George sighs. He's still a bit groggy, collapsing back down to lay his head on Owen’s shoulder without thought.

Owen lets out a little sound, half hum half sigh, tightening the arm he has draped around George’s shoulders as George is trying to decide if that was a good or bad reaction. George can’t suppress a small smile, relaxing again as he tries to mentally shake off the last traces of sleep. Had Owen’s arm been there when he dozed off, now he thinks about it? Or had Owen drawn him in in sleep, given him somewhere more comfortable to rest his head? George drapes an arm across Owen’s stomach, settles in even more comfortably. 

“How’s your quad?” he asks, quiet, reaching down to tap at the injured muscle in question.

“Eh,” is all Owen replies with, noncommittal.

“That good, huh?” George asks shrewdly.

“Just needs rest,” Owen sighs, frustrated. “Just gotta keep sitting on my arse watching you lads run around having all the fun.”

George hums sympathetically, running a hand up and down Owen’s thigh slowly. “You’ll still be playing though?” he checks.

“Oh yeah, definitely,” Owen nods, George feeling the motion rather than seeing it. “No way I’m letting it keep me off the pitch.”

“Unless the physios tell you to,” George replies lightly, lifting his head from Owen’s shoulder to look at him.

“Eh,” Owen dismisses. “Maybe. Got another week of rest after Scotland, how bad could it get?”

“Owen,” George warns.

“What?” Owen asks, defensive.

“The physios know that too, yeah?” George says gently, just a reminder. “No point putting yourself out for more matches.”

“Yeah,” Owen sighs explosively. “I know,” he admits. “Just frustrating.”

“I know,” George agrees. He’d been able to tell, earlier in the week. Owen’s normally as up for banter as the next rugby player, but sat on the sidelines he’d been pushing the edge to vicious a couple of times, inserting himself into conversation as if to remind them all that he was still there. “The more you rest it the sooner it’s better,” he tells Owen, wincing at the cliche, knowing that Owen knows it just as well as he does. But it’s all he has to offer, so he does, running his hand gently up and down Owen’s thigh again.

“You know I have heard that a few times,” Owen says wryly, but the undercurrent is warmth and not frustration. He picks up George’s hand from his thigh, kisses it briefly. “Now though, some of us have slept half the afternoon away - it’s almost time for Sarries; we should eat,” Owen says, moving on.

“You gonna cook for me?” George smiles, cocking his head at Owen as he stands. An hour and a half to go isn’t really ‘almost’ time for a game, but he’s happy to watch as much build up as Owen wants, and certainly can’t deny being hungry.

“Aren’t you lucky?” Owen says, holding out a hand to pull George up.

“Very,” George agrees.

~~~

“Come on!” George yells, standing up and clapping as Matt Toouma sends the ball between the uprights to seal the match, and Leicester’s victory.

“Good weekend,” Owen comments calmly, quietly, in the wake of George’s shout.

George laughs, giddy. “Brilliant weekend,” he agrees. Saracens had won last night, and the evening had only got better from there - George is really starting to get a taste for victory sex. Now Leicester have followed suit with their own win, finally, and George could hardly be happier. “I think Matty’s gunning for 10 though,” George says ruefully. “23 points, damn.”

“He’ll be lucky,” Owen snorts dismissively. “Maybe if you get injured.”

George’s smile, impossibly, grows just that little bit wider. It had been a brilliant match from Matty at fly half, as offhand as George’s comment had been the fear isn’t unreasonable. Owen’s total dismissal, that faith, makes George feel like glowing even above the flush of victory. “Aww, Owen,” George coos, sarcasm in place as a particularly flimsy shield. 

Owen flushes lightly, but smiles back at George as he flops back down onto the sofa and takes out his phone to send congratulations to the lads. 

“I’m so glad we won,” George sighs, shaking his head, once that’s done with.

“You’ll be on track for the semis now,” Owen says, only half joking. “Like always.”

“We do like to make it hard for ourselves,” George comments ruefully. “We’ll see. Might be too hard this time,” he goes on, trying to remain reasonable.

“You can’t fool me,” Owen laughs. “You started calculating points at half time, if you didn’t know exactly how much you had left to do before the match.”

“Well...,” George has no defence.

“Come here,” Owen reaches out, taking George’s upper arm and encouraging him to lean in. He kisses him lightly, breaking it after only a few moments. “I like you happy,” Owen says, quiet, maintaining eye contact.

It’s George’s turn to blush, now, and he pulls himself closer to Owen, bringing his legs up onto the sofa and pressing them against the side of Owen’s thighs, before leaning in for another kiss into which he tries to pour just how happy he is.

~~~

It’s light when George wakes, and he groans to see it. 

Owen chuckles, the sound rumbling through both of them where George’s arm is thrown across his chest. 

“Good morning to you too,” Owen says, low and amused, dragging the hand that had been settled at the small of George’s back up to the base of his neck.

“Morning,” George replies reluctantly. “Too light,” he whines, when Owen laughs again. “Want more weekend left,” he pouts, perching his chin on Owen’s shoulder to look at him.

“No you don’t,” Owen says knowingly.

George pulls a face, unable to argue. Yes, he’s enjoyed this weekend with Owen, this bubble they’ve contained themselves in - that groan at the thought of it drawing to a close had been genuine. But there’s a part of him that’s itching to be back on a pitch, ball in hand, or even just running kicking drills. There’s a part of him that’s always itching for that - and a part of Owen too, he thinks.

George leans up to kiss Owen good morning, to distract from his lack of retort, grunting when he comes up short. Owen laughs, again.

“Glad I’m so amusing,” George grumbles, pulling his way up Owen’s body to kiss him properly. If he digs his nails in to his grip on Owen’s shoulder, well, he has been laughing at George a lot for so early in the morning. No one could prove it’s for the little gasp he gives, the way it opens his mouth under George’s.

George flops back down, contented, after a few moments, his chin on Owen’s chest. He’s sprawled half across Owen now, and Owen tucks the arm closest to George underneath him to curl a hand around his waist.

“Morning breath,” Owen complains lazily.

“Oh?” George questions, and Owen just nods. “Well I could always take myself and my morning breath over here-” he pulls away, only to have Owen instantly tighten his grip.

“No no no,” Owen insists, pressing George’s body to him with his arms. “Sundays are for lie ins,” he insists.

George stops resisting, truthfully had never been trying particularly hard. Owen squeezes once more before he relaxes his hold, starts rubbing his thumb on George’s side in a motion that can only be described as petting.

“I almost forgot how much you like to cuddle,” George mumbles. Owen had always seemed to be awake first, in juniors, and he’d always seemed content just lying in bed with George. While they’d not had too many mornings like this, without time pressure, there had been a few. Enough for George to see right through the idea that the eventual lazy sex that Owen would instigate had always been the aim, to suspect that it was the mornings themselves he liked. Rugby players are a tactile bunch, so George had hardly been surprised, hadn’t really thought much of it. They’d never directly addressed it before, however.

“Almost?” Owen asks, quiet, running his hand down and back up George’s spine. 

George shivers as Owen starts to massage at the base of his neck. “Almost,” he agrees.

They lie there long moments, George feeling the heaviness of sleep start to pull on him again, aided by Owen’s massage and the encompassing warmth of their shared body heat below the duvet. Owen shifts his hand from George’s neck to the back of his head before he quite drifts off, pushes his fingers through his hair.

“You got it cut?” Owen asks, soft.

George hums in agreement. “When I went back to Leicester,” he replies.

“It used to be longer,” Owen comments.

“I'm not growing my hair out because you used to like getting your hands in it,” George warns, smiling slightly. He remembers that, too, the way Owen used to ruffle at his hair and enjoy making it look out of sorts.

“No, this is nice,” Owen says, skimming his hand over George’s head in a brief rub.

George hums thoughtfully, raises his hand to Owen’s pillow. Owen picks up his head to give George access, and he runs his hand slowly across his skull. “Yeah,” George agrees. He smiles up at Owen, before turning his head to rest his cheek on Owen’s chest.

This is nice.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in the week off after the Scotland match, when ~~we all still had hope, damn it~~ a few separate groups had training focussed on reconditioning.

It’s only 10 in the morning when George makes it to Oxford for training, where he’s directed first to his room to stow his things before training actually starts from 11. George knocks perfunctorily on the door before letting himself in his room, not having been told who he’ll be rooming with or if they’ve yet arrived.

“Hiya,” Owen greets, smiling widely from the bed he’s sat on. He’s on his phone, bag on the bed next to him, clearly having just arrived himself.

“Hiya,” George returns, grinning back in delighted surprise. He drops his bag just inside the door and steps over to drop a quick kiss on Owen’s lips in greeting. “How’re you doing?” he asks, still close, hand still resting on Owen’s shoulder. He pretty much knows the answer from their messages, but this is the first time he’s actually seen Owen since the desolation of the night after their loss to Scotland.

Owen moves his head from side to side noncommittally, chucks his phone to the bed before reaching to take George’s other hand. “Not so great,” he admits, eyes on their hands, playing with George’s fingers. “Felt better about matches before in my life, you know,” he jokes

“I know,” George agrees, squeezing Owen’s shoulder. “Had to have another loss sometime, right?” he says - a sentiment he’s not found so easy to accept himself.

“No,” Owen just mutters, petty.

George laughs lightly, aching with how much he agrees. “Well then - we won’t let it happen again,” he suggests.

“Damn straight,” Owen agrees, tightening his grip on George’s hand and tugging gently.

George follows Owen’s pull, easy, all the way into his body, settles sitting sideways on Owen’s lap. He hums contentedly when Owen’s hands come to settle on his hips, the tips of Owen’s fingers slipping up under George’s t shirt to draw small circles on bare skin.

George takes his own hold of Owen at his shoulders, one arm wrapped around them for stability, and leans in for a more thorough kiss. 

“You alright?” Owen asks, quiet, when they part.

George just shakes his head. “Hoping training’ll help,” he replies, equally quiet. “Gotta do something about it.”

“Yeah,” Owen agrees sympathetically. “Got our own room,” he says after a moment, shifting his grip so his touch on George’s hips becomes edged with blunt nails.

George shivers. “I noticed,” he says wryly. “Not sure if we should be thankful to Eddie, or pissed he’s segregated off the queers.”

Owen rolls his eyes. “Let’s go with thankful,” he suggests, rueful enough that George knows he wasn’t the only one of them to have that thought. “He’s been great.”

“He has,” George agrees, seriously - he hadn’t expected half of the support they’d gotten from Eddie, shouldn’t slip into a lack of gratitude so easily. George leans in to Owen for another kiss, longer again. He just can’t resist when Owen’s that close - or more accurately he’s spent too long resisting to want to even try anymore.

“Think this training’ll be tough?” Owen asks when they’ve separated.

George pulls a face. “Can’t tell,” he says. “Probably.”

“So long as we’ve still got the energy to take advantage of this lovely room,” Owen punctuates his statement with a sharp squeeze of George’s hips.

“Shouldn’t think that’ll be an issue,” George replies, surprised himself by how low his voice drops. George can’t get enough of Owen now he’s allowed to have him again, and Owen seems to feel the same - they’ve not been stupid about it, not risked either being caught or their performance, but George is pretty sure it’d take more than a few hard training sessions to keep them away from each other when they don’t have a curfew to be mindful of.

“Mmm,” Owen hums in agreement, leaning in to drop a kiss at the base of George’s neck, just above the neckline of his shirt, edging it with just a touch of teeth. George drops his head back to give Owen easier access, grip tightening around Owen’s shoulders for balance as Owen lightly kisses his way up George’s neck and back to his lips. 

Owen’s in a teasing mood, it seems, making moves to deepen the kiss time and time again, backing off on every one. George doesn’t have the leverage or the angle to deepen the kiss himself, not without unbalancing them both, has to sit and endure light passes of Owen’s lips, the occasional nips and brushes of tongue that never amount to anything. It’s exactly as much of a hardship as it sounds.

“Owen,” George growls, frustrated, after what seems like decades but can only have been minutes. 

“Alright there babe?” Owen leans back, smirking and looking far too pleased with himself. It’s the first time Owen’s called him anything but variations on his name, George thinks. He cocks his head to the side in consideration, wincing when it aggravates the crick developing in his neck. He likes it.

”Neck okay?” Owen questions, bringing a hand from George’s hip to rub warm at the side of it.

“Not the most comfortable position,” George admits.

“Shift?” Owen suggests, tucking his hand back onto George’s hip and pushing to show the change he’s suggesting.

George thinks for a half second. They have training to get to, probably sooner than they would like. They should unpack beforehand, will only regret it later if they spend their time making out like teenagers instead. They’ve made the exact same mistake before, as teenagers, and they really should be more sensible now.

George shifts back on Owen’s lap, so he’s barely perching on his knees. Then he swings his leg over Owen’s just as he’s encouraged, straddles him. George pulls himself down Owen’s legs by the arm that still wrapped around his shoulders, wriggles his hips a little as he settles just to make Owen curse.

“Hiya,” George says - his turn to smirk.

Owen just grunts, ducking his fingertips from underneath George’s shirt to underneath his waistband, staring at his lips because, oh yeah - George is the one with the angle now, George is the one with the leverage. Still, he doesn’t move when Owen leans in and up, lets him connect their lips and returns what he gives with interest. Gone is the teasing Owen had been playing with - George runs the kiss deep and wet right from the beginning. He digs nails in where he’s gripping Owen’s shoulder, over his shirt, makes him whine. Owen removes a hand from the skin at George’s hips, brings it round to settle on his arse, squeezing just lightly.

George can’t help but shift his hips at that, pressing into Owen - and yeah, that’s too much. He backs off, keeps them kissing deep but slows it right down. Despite being practically sat on Owen’s cock - and isn’t _that_ a thought for later - George doesn’t want to take things to a place they can’t go so close to training. It was a promise for later he was trying to lay down, and now it’s time to bank that fire they’ve built. George flicks his tongue lazily, smoothes it across Owen’s bottom lip, soft. 

They kiss, slow and languid, for long minutes. Owen keeps his hands where they are, one just dipping under George’s waistband and one cupping his arse, but doesn’t squeeze to provoke him again. George suspects they’re on the same page. For George’s part, he loosens his grip on Owen’s shoulders and traces slow patterns there with his fingers instead. George can feel the tension draining out of him, and out of Owen’s shoulders. The stress George had arrived at training with, the desperate unproductive side of the urge to better themselves, is evaporating with each smooth motion of the kiss, draining away into contentment and surety. They can do this. They’ll have to work hard, on everything - but they can do this. 

They’re interrupted when George’s phone starts ringing in his back pocket. Owen retrieves it for him.

“Your mum,” Owen informs George, passing the phone over.

“Thanks,” George says, accepts the call without shifting from Owen’s lap. “Hi mum,” he greets. It’s only after he’s spoken that he realises how hard he’s breathing, tries to slow it down.

“Hi Georgie,” she replies - the only person, other than Owen, that George has ever allowed to use that nickname. “How are you?”

“Yeah, pretty good,” George replies - only realises by her lack of reply that that’s by far the most positive he’s been since Saturday morning. “How about you?” he asks, only partly to distract her.

“Oh, fine,” she responds. “I just wanted to invite you up for the weekend, if you’ve got time to discuss it now?”

George knows Owen is spending the weekend with his own family this week - their last opportunity before the Ireland match looms too large for comfort - so the invitation is welcome. He makes eye contact with Owen, who shrugs, getting his own phone out to show George the time.

“Yeah, I’ve got a bit of time,” George says, grimacing at Owen in apology. He's barely shifted his weight backwards to move off Owen’s lap when Owen’s arm comes around to hold him in place.

George makes a questioning face at Owen - does he really want to be trapped under George’s weight while he has a chat with his mum? Judging by the beatific smile that is his only response, it seems so.

So George settles into making plans, inquires briefly about his dad and brothers, while Owen leans his head on George’s shoulder and checks his own phone. He doesn’t get up to any of the mischief George had briefly feared he might, doesn’t kiss up George’s neck to distract him, or make noises. They just... sit, sharing space, close enough that Owen’s head moves with every one of George’s breaths.

George wraps up the conversation fairly quickly, twitching to do something to dispel the burning building in his chest. His mum, as always, sees right through him. 

“Are you sure you’re okay, George?” she asks again, serious, when he first tries to say goodbye.

“Yeah, mum,” he assures her. “Really good,” he says softly, letting himself smile as gently as the warmth in his chest wants him to.

Owen leans back on hearing George’s tone, cocks his head curiously as he watches George’s face.

“Well, that’s good,” his mum replies, clearly pleased. “I’ll speak to you later then, okay?”

“Bye mum,” George says, breaking eye contact with Owen as he ends the call.

“Good?” Owen checks.

“Yes, mum,” George says pointedly, rolling his eyes. He flinches when Owen pokes him in the side, but doesn’t let that stop him from leaning in for the kiss he’d been craving. “Really good,” he repeats when they break apart for air, resting his forehead against Owen’s and keeping his eyes closed - just in case Owen is looking at him like he’s mad. 

His reaction barely makes sense to himself - though knowing Owen he probably gets it, gets him, like he always does. George has known, of course, that physical intimacy isn’t all he’s been craving, for all he’s been a bit distracted by it for the past few weeks. It’s this, this closeness, this domesticity and easy comfort with another person - that’s what George has really been looking for. Someone he can share his worries with, no need for a show. Someone he can sit with and just... coexist. That’s what he hopes he’s found.

“Good,” Owen replies, before nosing in for another, gentler kiss - proving that he at least understands what George’s reaction has been, if not the reasons behind it.

“Now my thighs are killing, you heavy arse,” Owen breaks the mood with a light smack to said arse. “We’re not teenagers any more - get off me and let’s unpack, yeah?”

“Weren’t complaining earlier,” George grumbles, but he’s grinning, grins more when Owen can’t help but return it. 

~~~

It’s quiet at lunchtime - George suspects everyone is just trying to gather their energy for another round. George had thought he was appropriately wary of the word ‘reconditioning’ but he’s not sure he’s actually ever been more wrong. He looks up when Owen taps a foot against his, returns his smile and leaves their feet brushing together when that seems to be all Owen wants. They’re sat with Maro, Jamie, and Elliot, who seem fully focussed on their food, and Haskell, who seems fully focussed on his phone.

“Tell me the rest of camp’s been better than this,” Elliot appeals after a few minutes of quiet. “It’s been fun, right, not just torture? There’s been laughter, gossip?”

“Oh, you bet,” Jamie assures him. “When have we ever disappointed on gossip?” he asks, feigning offence.

Elliot laughs. “What’s the best gossip been then, come on?”

“Well-” Jamie starts, clearly thinking hard for an answer that isn’t ‘Owen came out’.

“Oh, you’re not going to lie to the poor lad, are you?” Owen asks, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“I mean... I probably was?” Jamie admits. “Sorry about that, mate,” he apologises.

“That’s okay,” Elliot replies, bemused. 

“Well are you going to tell him then?” Jamie asks when Owen doesn’t immediately do so. “I’m not going to do it for you!” he insists.

“Appreciate that,” Owen sends a quick grin Jamie’s way before turning to Elliot. “Best gossip is me telling the squad I’m gay,” he shrugs. “Which is a bit disappointing, really, considering how many of them already knew.”

George thinks he should probably at least try to pretend he’s not watching Elliot like a hawk for his reaction, but, well - with some players it’s probably better that they know they’re watched. George doesn’t think that’ll be the case with Elliot, to be fair, but it doesn’t hurt to be cautious. You never really know. 

“That’s it?” Elliot says, raising an eyebrow, before the Saracens can step in to continue the conversation. They’ve built a good system - George watching whoever Owen comes out to, whatever Saracens players happen to be there continuing the conversation with Owen, or among themselves, to stop the player feeling pressured to reply quickly - stupidly. He hopes Elliot’s not about to ruin their streak of relaxed reactions. 

“I am disappointed,” Elliot sighs. “The best gossip of the Six Nations, the best gossip you guys have got for me, is that one guy on a squad of what, 30 of us? _One guy_ is gay? That’s just probability,” Elliot complains as Owen starts laughing. “That’s not even probability! I mean that’s great, I’m glad you trust us enough to tell us, but I need more than that before it’s decent gossip, come on guys,” Elliot shakes his head in disappointment, sighing.

“Well in that case I _do_ have better gossip for you!” Jamie grins. “Wouldn’t’ve been lying after all.”

“Well good,” Elliot grins. “I’m all ears,” he invites - but James Haskell speaks up before Jamie can reply.

“What, you’re _actually_ gay?” he asks Owen, sounding shocked.

“Uh, yeah,” Owen replies, frowning at Hask in confusion. He’s not the only one - James hasn’t been in camp much but George is sure he’s Owen’s mentioned it while in conversation with a group containing Hask. It wasn’t even an implied mention, George is sure he remembers the word ‘gay’ coming out of Owen’s mouth. George remembers thinking at the time that Hask had taken it in stride well.

“This is you _actually_ coming out?” Hask asks, the surprise still there.

“When a person tells you they’re gay that’s normally called a coming out, yeah,” Owen tells him, flat.

“I just... thought it was a joke?” Hask says, seemingly starting to realise that everyone else in the conversation is looking at him like he’s a moron. 

“No?” is all Owen can say in response - because Hask does still seem to be waiting for a response, another confirmation.

“Not everything is a joke, mate,” Jamie smiles teasingly - proving he’s the nicest one of them. George certainly wasn’t going to bail him out, and looking at the skeptical, increasingly judgemental look of Maro’s face he wasn’t going to either. They make eye contact and it seems to remind Maro that he can in fact be seen, as he restores a more neutral expression - George sends him a quick raised eyebrow, to reassure Maro that his reaction is completely shared.

“What do you mean?” Hask replies, feigning confusion now. “Is everyone not joking, all the time? I thought that was how we operated around here.”

“No, that’s just you and me mate,” Elliot contributes to the rescue effort. “Some of these guys say what they mean. I know, it’s weird.”

“No _wonder_ I get into such trouble on the pitch,” Hask exclaims. “Oh, this explains so much, this is gonna change everything, thank you!”

“Yeah, you’re alright mate,” Elliot laughs.

“So, who already knew?” Hask asks, turning back to Owen. “Sounds like there’s gossip potential there - who knew ages ago? Who’s being inducted into the inner sanctum years late?”

“No one’s years late,” Owen scoffs. “Just Sarries knew, let word get around over last season.”

“And you’re just telling all the rest of us now?” Hask asks. “No one you’d like to say, oh, maybe don’t tell him, don’t like him so much?”

“No?” Owen replies. “That sounds like a nightmare? Thought I was maybe being obnoxious about it trying to get everyone up to speed honestly - guess I can step it up now,” Owen grins teasingly.

“You’re not being obnoxious,” Maro pipes up for the first time in the conversation, shaking his head. “This is good - there was a bit at Sarries where no one was sure who knew, or if we could bring it up. This is better,” he assures Owen. 

“You saying I did it badly the first time?” Owen teases.

Maro just rolls his eyes.

“Who says obnoxious is a bad thing anyway?” Hask grins. “I’m a big fan of it, personally.” George struggles not to roll his own eyes at that. “The boys been good?” Hask checks. “No bad reactions?”

“You’ve probably been the worst mate,” Owen says, offhand.

Hask just laughs at that, loudly. “You got the gossip on that, Fordy?” he asks - George blinks, surprised to be questioned. “You seemed to be watching his reaction pretty closely-” Hask indicates Elliot “-you seen anyone you think needs keeping an eye on?”

“Eh, it’s been alright,” George shrugs. “Thought you reacted a bit strange last week but guess we know why now.”

“You really _have_ been keeping an eye on people!” Elliot laughs.

“A bit,” George shrugs, seeing no point in pretending otherwise.

“We all have, I think. Those of us who already knew,” Jamie glances at Maro to check - Maro shrugs one shoulder, nodding. If George had said that it would have been a warning, but he thinks Jamie really is just carrying on conversation.

“Hang on, ‘those of you who already knew’?” Hask makes air quotes. “Fordy’s not a Saracen - how did he make that group?”

“There is favouritism in the England squad!” Elliot exclaims, grinning. “Terrible from our vice captain, just terrible.”

“You’ve kept us all in the dark while you told Fordy, trusted him most,” Hask accuses. ”He’s meant to be your rival!”

“Yeah, ‘cause we’re such bitter rivals,” Owen mutters. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” he shrugs, after a moment. “Yeah, George knew before I told the rest of England. He knew before I told Sarries, before I told my parents. If it is favouritism he’s been my favourite since before I knew your name.”

It’s... blunt. Maybe too blunt. George fights a blush, fights the urge to duck his head - manages to just raise an eyebrow when Hask turns his shocked expression his way. 

“That doesn’t lessen the favouritism,” Hask says at last.

“Guess not,” Owen concedes. “Might actually make it worse.” He doesn’t seem bothered by the idea.

“He knew before you told your parents?” Elliot says - technically a repetition, not a question, but they know what he wants to hear.

George and Owen exchange a look.

“Not by long, to be fair,” George replies, downplaying it.

“Thanks to you getting my head out my arse,” Owen points out.

“You knew you had nothing to worry about really,” George dismisses. “You’d’ve told them by the end of the week, with or without me. You don’t do secrets.”

Owen just shrugs, before glancing between Elliot and Hask and realising that they’re still waiting for a coherent explanation. “Got a bit caught up about it, back when we went to school together,” he explains. “Couldn’t kick a ball straight, so Fordy here bullied the reason why out of me. Told my parents about an hour later, in the end.”

“And coming out helped you kick... straighter?” Hask asks, playing with the pun.

“Somehow,” Owen grins. “Eventually,” he adds, sliding a sideways look at George.

“Eventually,” George smirks back at Owen, remembering fondly the next dodgy kicking session - where the problem Owen had needed to get off his chest was his crush on George, specifically. Yeah, that’d turned out alright.

~~~

George aches all over when he and Owen return to their room that evening.

“Ugh,” Owen groans, a departure from the tough, unfazed mask the lads had taken to projecting over dinner. “Do you think the coaches hate us?” he asks. “Is that why they’re doing this?”

“After the performance against Scotland? Probably,” George replies wryly.

Owen just groans again, dropping onto the bed closest to the door.

George flops down next to him, letting their calves and arms overlap. He takes a moment to be thankful for England, for the system and the money that had led to them getting a double bed each. They’ll have to mess up the other bed before they leave the next morning, make it appear slept in, but it’s still undeniably a step up from the two single beds, only sometimes pressed together, that they’d worked with in juniors.

“How’s your quad?” he asks lightly.

Owen grunts. “I’d rather talk about Hask,” he says wearily.

“We can do that,” George responds readily. “Thought you might’ve discussed your sexuality enough for one day.” Hask hadn’t let up on the questions all lunch, wanting every detail and bit of gossip he felt he’d missed out on. 

“He was just... treating it like everything else,” Owen says cautiously. “It was... nice?” And that’s not even cautious, it’s actually a question.

George decides to give claim that all the respect it deserves, ignoring it completely. “He’s an idiot,” he says, blunt.

“Aw, he’s not that bad,” Owen defends halfheartedly.

“He’s an idiot,” George repeats, flat. “You literally called yourself gay in front of him - and he didn’t get it.” 

“People do that though, don’t they?” Owen says ruefully. “Brush comments off, don’t even realise.”

“Not sure they do when someone actually says the word ‘gay’,” George points out, still annoyed at Hask for ruining their run of relaxed reactions. “But yeah,” he relents. “They don’t expect it, so they don’t hear it. If it could be less of a whole ‘sit down and talk seriously’ big deal I’d be out to a lot more people - whether that’d be a good thing or not.” His brothers would know, if casual comments could count. And maybe they do, maybe they’ve noticed like Ben did, his little slip ups - some deliberate, some not. But George doubts that they do, because they’ve never had the whole ‘sit down and talk seriously’ thing. He doesn’t want to.

“Yeah, I get that,” Owen nods sympathetically. George feels a ring of kinship he normally shares with Owen - and a few of the other lads, to be fair - over rugby. That feeling of being seen and understood, experiences shared, is only stronger for being in a different setting, around a different concept. 

“It’s kind of addictive when you get going though,” Owen says after a few moments, perking up.

“Yeah?” George acknowledges leadingly.

“Yeah,” Owen agrees. “It’s so nice not to worry at Sarries anymore, to just say whatever and not have to think about it. That’s part of why I’m so pushy now, just wanting to get back to that,” he grins self deprecatingly.

“You’re not pushy. If the lads didn’t talk about relationships and girls so much you wouldn’t either,” George points out.

“Hmm,” Owen pulls a face. “It just all comes spilling out when you don’t have to keep it in - that relaxation is going to get me in trouble with other things eventually,” he reflects ruefully. “I’ve got to stop pulling you into my coming out story,” Owen says, serious, turning onto his side to face George, propping his head up on his hand.

George turns to mirror him. “Ah, it’s fine,” he dismisses. “They know now, and it’s good for them to know that someone’s watching them, that another player has known for so long and it’s never mattered. I’m modelling good behaviour,” he jokes, grinning smugly.

“It’s too late now,” Owen agrees. “But I shouldn’t - this is the first time we’ve talked about this, but I meant to say: I shouldn’t have come out like that the first time. It dragged you into the situation, put you in that meeting talking about sexuality, and I know you don’t want to come out. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t - It’s fine,” George says, blinking at Owen’s serious expression. “Telling them about school helps with that, anyway, so there’s no way you should apologise for both. And-” George pauses, bites his lip. He rolls onto his back again and looks up to the ceiling to gather his words. “I told the coaches,” he says slowly. “It’s not as if - if I could get to your stage, at Sarries, without having to go through this bit... I don’t know. It kind of sounds like bliss,” he quirks a grin, offhand and shrugging. “I don’t _want_ to come out,” George reiterates. “I’ve been lucky, it’s not been that bad often enough to be worth potential fallout, but - I could be more bothered about it.”

“It’s not bliss,” Owen says, tone serious. “Or - it is great, but... if you’re thinking about it, I don’t want you going in blind.”

“Like you did,” George interrupts.

“Like you don’t have to,” Owen says forcefully, putting a hand on George’s stomach, tapping his fingers there when George looks at him. “There are guys who’ve reacted badly - just a couple, but there are some. It’s still so worth it, for me, to say whatever and know that the guys already know, that I’m safe, that they won’t start shit, but... Well, it’s probably not a bad thing Billy isn’t here, it might mess with this nice little show of Saracens unity,” Owen’s got on the same half smile George had, playing it off. “Your lads will be different to mine, of course they will, and I’ve not regretted it for a second, but - it’s not quite bliss.”

George wishes he were more surprised to hear it. “I’m not really thinking about it,” he tells Owen. “More a daydream, I think. I don’t want the whole big deal,” he says forcefully. “The England lads have all been good, though,” he finishes, trying for a little optimism. It’s almost not _been_ a big deal, until Hask - but George has to wonder how much of that is down to Sarries diffusing things, how much guys have been gossiping that they’ve just not heard about.

“As far as we know,” Owen says cynically. “You and Sarries have been great but they’ve definitely figured out that you’re watching them, which _does_ make you the least likely to hear if shit is going around.”

“If it keeps ‘em quiet who cares,” George shrugs. “They realise enough of us won’t entertain their bullshit and there won’t _be_ bullshit. But I seriously think it’s been fine,” he goes on. “Between me and Sarries - and you - we’d’ve heard anything actually bad by now. I’m sure people are saying dumb things, but there are enough lads fine with it that we’d’ve got a heads up if someone actually had a problem. It’s gone great,” he reassures Owen.

Owen rolls his eyes, but George can see the way the corners of his mouth twitch up, the way he’s relaxed a little since his cynicism. 

“Now I really have had enough talking about myself,” Owen declares, rolling on top of George. 

George huffs out a breath at the weight, maybe a little louder than he has to.

“I thought we said we were going to take advantage of this room, hm?” Owen suggests, warm and low and close, before leaning in to kiss George softly.

George has a brief moment to think that actually conversations like this probably _are_ part of taking advantage of the room, and then he’s really not thinking much at all.


	7. Chapter 7

George is appreciating a few rare moments of quiet, of no one yelling at him or anyone else for not doing some basic thing absolutely perfectly, when a knock comes on the door of his room. He takes a moment to groan. It’s Monday, mid-afternoon, one of the few occasions in the week where most of the squad are afforded a few hours off by virtue of the captains and vice captains meeting with the coaching staff. Was it really too much to ask to enjoy them in his own company for a change? 

The knock comes again. Apparently it is.

George heaves a sigh, but gets up to let whoever it is in.

“Owen?” George asks, surprised, catching him just turning away.

“I thought you’d be here,” Owen grins. “Started doubting for a sec,” he laughs. “Can I-?” Owen answers his own question by stepping forwards, taking George by the hips to walk him back into the room and kissing him soundly as the door shuts behind them. They’ve not been that reckless since the first night they got back together - George is intrigued.

“What’s up?” he asks.

A grin bursts back onto Owen’s face at the question alone - George can feel himself mirroring it.

“Gonna be captain all match,” Owen - brags, is really the only word for it. “They don’t want to risk things with Dylan, so he’s definitely resting. It’ll be me and Mako as vice. They’re not gonna tell the other lads until tomorrow,” Owen calms down a little to warn George. “And Dylan’ll still be travelling with us, but - captain!” Owen’s grin had barely diminished for a moment before it returns.

George tries his hardest to contain the smile he so desperately wants to send back to Owen. “What a terrible response to your captain being unable to play,” he scolds - can only hold it for a second before the grin breaks through. “Congratulations,” he says, pulling Owen in for what is admittedly a terrible kiss, both of them smiling too wide to make it any good.

“Thanks,” Owen says, still half against George’s lips. “Dylan’ll be fine with the week off, he’s not been hiding that it’s worse or anything,” Owen clarifies, serious, pulling back.

George rolls his eyes. “I know,” he assures Owen. “I was just teasing, I know you wouldn’t react like that if it was serious - though you could, yeah?” he murmurs, leaning up for another, more successful, kiss. He’d be happy for Owen, celebrate with him, even if Dylan was out for months, even if it was at what should be a cost to the team. If George was less involved in their kiss he’d probably have to think about that - as it is, a squeeze on his hips captures his attention before he can even begin.

Owen has kept his hands on George’s hips throughout the conversation, and while George had instinctively raised his hands to Owen’s shoulders he now repositions, wrapping one arm tight around Owen’s waist and pulling him closer. Owen steps forwards with the pull, the small distance he can manage, pressing them flush together with one of his legs nestling between George’s.

“I need to tell my parents,” Owen says, just barely not-kissing George. It’s only on a technicality, and not one George thinks any potential witness could actually distinguish. “But for now, we’ve got some free time left before dinner...” he trails off leadingly, pressing his lips to George’s once more. 

“Yeah?” George responds, light and flirtatious. “What do you want then - captain?” he drops his voice on the last word, as low and - hopefully - sultry as he knows how. The rush of self consciousness comes almost instantly, abates just as quickly as Owen’s mouth actually drops open a little. George can’t resist diving in to nip at Owen’s bottom lip, wrapping them up in another kiss before Owen can reply.

His question isn’t forgotten though, Owen growling “ _You_ ,” the moment their lips disconnect, diving back in hungrily the next second.

Well, it’s not very instructive, George thinks ruefully, but it sure is nice to hear.

“Naked, on your knees,” Owen goes on - and that, George can work with.

~~~

France is tough. It’s tough enough that George throws caution to the wind, abandons the post match dinner barely five minutes after Owen and sneaks up to the single room the status of captain had afforded him. They’d managed to hide away during the press conference after the Scotland match, when everyone typically calls their family and partners - but Owen had had to attend the press conference today, and George doubts that has helped his mood. 

At least Dylan had stepped back into captain’s duties for the dinner, George thinks as he knocks on Owen’s door. He’s unsurprised when it talks long moments for Owen to answer, just waits patiently.

“George,” Owen greets as the door swings inwards, having clearly checked who was there through the peephole. George takes a second to wonder if Owen would have opened the door for anyone else, bar Eddie and Dylan.

“Hey,” George smiles weakly, stepping straight into the room and, when the door is closed, straight into Owen’s arms. He holds Owen tight, refusing to be put off by Owen not responding.

“Sorry,” Owen mutters, eventually, shoulders relaxing just slightly and arms coming up round George once he’s done so.

“What for?” George asks.

“Could’ve been a better captain,” Owen replies, quiet. “Should’ve.”

“I could’ve been a better 10,” George offers in return. “ _I’m_ sorry.” There’s an uncomfortable moment where they sit with that - because they both know it’s true, know George has the capacity for better - before George moves on with his point. “Coley could’ve been better, Ant could’ve been better. You orchestrated that try, kept us right in it - you’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

“Could’ve done better,” Owen repeats.

“You can always do better,” George insists. “It’s never going to be perfect, there’s always something. This isn’t on you,” he says forcefully, finally - feeling that’s the real takeaway Owen needs. No, he’s not been perfect, of course he hasn’t. George himself had been a long way from it, and they hadn’t been the only two players. But that doesn’t mean Owen needs to apologise like it was his responsibility. Captain he may have been, but he can’t save the whole side from themselves.

Owen doesn’t agree, not verbally, but he does relax. “Next time, we’ll do better,” he whispers, a promise, into George’s neck.

They’ll have to.

~~~

It’s Monday afternoon and George has been called in to Eddie’s office. He doesn’t think it’s a good sign.

He’s right.

It’s a quick meeting, George accepting the decision and promising to work harder, do better. He’s not quite sure how he’s going to achieve either, but it’s all he can do.

He grimaces at Chris Robshaw when they pass in the corridor, retreats to his room.

George has been in there all of five seconds, not even pulled out his phone to call his family, when he thinks quite clearly _fuck it_ , and turns on his heel.

There’s one person he wants to talk to about this, one person with the perfect knowledge of the game, the decision, George. One person who he thinks will comfort him, but not bullshit him with platitudes. He’s not going to let the fact that that person is in what has been his 10 shirt keep him away.

He knocks briskly on Owen’s door, not particularly wanting to hang around long enough to be seen.

Owen is clearly surprised to see George at his door, steps back quickly to let him in. “Wasn’t sure I’d see you this afternoon,” he says, guarded.

“I thought you must know,” George replies. He tries a smile, can feel that it comes out all wrong.

“Oh, George,” Owen sounds as lost as George is starting to feel, now he’s with someone else who knows, someone he doesn’t have to pretend around - it’s sinking in. George regrets coming, for a split second, while Owen just stares at him hopelessly. He shouldn’t have brought this here, shouldn’t have forced this on Owen when he should be happy for his own opportunity. Then Owen opens his arms.

He does it tentatively, like he still can’t believe George has come to him in this, but it’s all George needs. He steps into Owen’s embrace, holds him tight, relaxing into Owen’s arms when they come up around him.

“Thanks,” he mutters. “I didn’t want you to think - I’m not mad at you, I don’t mind,” George explains, stepping back.

Owen scoffs. “Of course you mind. I thought you wouldn’t want to see me, at least for tonight,” he reminds George. “I would’ve understood. Don’t lie to me, yeah?”

George isn’t quite sure what to say to that. “It’s fair,” he shrugs. “Eddie has to try something, you’re brilliant, I’ve clearly not been - it makes sense. You deserve it,” he adds, doesn’t want Owen to think his comment about Eddie needing to try something, his criticism of his own performance, were meant to imply that the change had been made as a last resort. “When you’ve got someone that good hanging around it’d be stupid not to change, the media’d be on his back even more if he hadn’t.”

“Are you done?” Owen asks. George just nods - he can’t bring himself to say he’s happy for Owen. Maybe he should, maybe it makes him a terrible boyfriend, but - he can’t, and Owen did say not to lie to him.

Owen steps forward once more, more confident of his reception, wraps George back up in a hug. “It sucks,” he says bluntly.

“It’s fair,” George repeats, hollow.

Owen only shrugs. “It sucks,” he repeats.

“I’d’ve done it,” George admits, quiet.

“It still sucks,” Owen replies.

“Yeah,” George admits, eventually. “It sucks.”

Owen turns his head, presses a kiss to George’s temple. “Nap?” he offers.

“Nap,” George agrees, pulling away to lead them both to the bed.

~~~

George ends up calling his mum late that evening, he and Owen having laid together until they absolutely had to go down for dinner - going separately, because as close as they’re known to be there’s no way that wouldn’t have seemed odd once the others found out.

“You alright George?” she asks, immediately on picking up the phone. It’s later than he’d usually ring, and she knows what Monday afternoon in an international camp means as well as anybody.

“I’m on the bench this weekend mum,” he tells her - quick, like ripping off a plaster.

“Oh, George!” she exclaims. “That’s rubbish, you don’t deserve that. What’s happened hasn’t been _your_ fault.”

George rather thinks it has, a bit. Not totally, of course, he’s no narcissist - but it’s his fault at least as much as anyone else’s, and rather more than some. It would be a relief to pretend it was as easy as being one person’s fault.

“It’s fair,” he says, shrugging even though she can’t see him.

“It’s not going to fix things,” his mum replies. She might be right, George honestly isn’t sure. 

“Owen’s great, mum, they’d be mad not to switch us at a time like this.” George doesn’t want to defend the decision, actually. He’d accepted it at the time, gone through the extra rationalisation with Owen - he’s up to accepting his reaction, working through the sadness to the determination to do better. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck,” he jokes, in the interests of doing just that.

There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line.

“Mum?” George checks.

“Normally I need to coax you to admit that,” his mum says slowly. “I’m not the first person you told, am I?” She seems to regret the question immediately, blustering on. “Well, I’m still sorry, and I still think it’s the wrong call. Even if your father told me differently I’d still think it, so don’t you start,” she says staunchly, and George smiles fondly to hear it. “You get off that bench and you show them just what a mistake it was.”

“I’ll try,” George says, still smiling. “And mum?”

He pauses to let her acknowledge him, thinking carefully about what to say. He and Owen haven’t talked about telling their families, and he won’t out Owen, not to anyone.

“You were right,” he says after a moment. “I did talk to someone else first - I’m seeing someone,” he finally spits out, cursing himself for chickening out of more specificity.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” his mum responds - and now George is certain she has been figuring it out, there’s no surprise in her voice. “How long for?” she asks.

“Not too long,” George deflects - it sounds better than ‘nearly two months’, in the context of how long he’s not told her.

“Any chance of meeting them?” is the next question. George notes the ambiguous pronoun, appreciates it.

“You’ll meet him soon enough,” George promises, biting down hard on his lip the instant the words - the pronoun - is out there.

“Soon enough for you or soon enough for me?” his mum jokes.

“Soon enough for him,” George tells her. His second use of a male pronoun - she has to have heard it, right?

“Well I suppose that’ll have to do,” his mum sighs, still teasing. “Your dad’s just here - do you want to speak to him?”

“I’ll tell him,” George says, answering the question his mum hadn’t quite asked. He hadn’t been able to tell his dad when he’d got dropped from the World Cup squad. He’d told his mum, one person, and that had been all he could do. He’s older now, more secure in his place in the squad - he won’t let it shake him as much, at least as far as he’s able.

“I’ll pass you over now then,” his mum says, presumably not wanting to hang around on the phone so late. “I’ll talk to you later - love you Georgie,” she signs off.

“Love you too,” George replies, hears the sounds of the phone being handed over.

“Hi George,” his dad says. He doesn’t sound surprised to hear from him.

“Hi dad,” George replies. “I’m on the bench,” he tells him, rueful.

“Well then you’re gonna get off it and show them just why they’re never going to put you there again, hm?” his dad challenges.

“I’m going to try,” George agrees.

“Farrell starting at 10?” his dad asks, clearly just checking.

“Yep,” George confirms. “They’re not bringing Cipriani in just yet,” he jokes.

“They better not,” his dad almost sounds disgusted at the idea, and George chokes on a laugh.

“What else were you and your mother discussing?” his dad asks - as if the question doesn’t make it obvious that he basically knows.

“Nosy!” George just about hears his mum, in the background, accompanied by a muffled sound he’d bet is her whacking his dad’s shoulder.

“I’ve got a boyfriend,” George declares, confidence in his voice no doubt ringing false. He doesn’t want the front, this time, the ambiguity. They’ll know sooner or later, he’s sure of that now, sure enough that this thing will last. It might as well be sooner - and he can’t take not knowing if his use of pronouns has been heard twice in one conversation.

“Oh,” and now his dad does sound surprised. “A boyfriend, wow.”

“You knew it was a possibility,” George says, defensive. His free hand is curled into a first, nails threatening to cut into his palm.

“Yeah,” his dad agrees. “I - that’s great,” he says finally. 

“It is,” George agrees. “He’s been great over the Six Nations, so good.” His free hand is still curved into that fist but he tries to dig his nails out of his palm.

“You started dating him before the tournament, then?” his dad inquires - a normal, standard question, one he might ask about a partner of any gender.

“Just about,” George replies.

“That’s a tough start to a relationship,” Mike comments.

“Yeah,” George agrees, starting to relax as they move away from the revelation. “Like I said, it’s been great.”

“Well, that’s great to hear. I’m happy for you,” Mike tells him, sincere.

George feels his shoulders slump in relief. 

“Thanks dad,” he replies, more emotion in it than he quite meant there to be. “I should start turning in now, I’ll talk to you later, yeah?”

“Talk to you later,” his dad agrees. “Love you,” he signs off - rarer for him than George’s mum.

“Love you too,” George replies, only a touch unsteady, and hangs up.

He drops his head to his hands, blows out a long, carefully steady breath. That’s that done. 

Next stage: telling them who it is.

~~~

George wakes to the feeling of the bed shifting beneath him. “Owen?” he mumbles confusedly, turning towards the movement.

“Luckily, yes,” comes Owen’s amused voice. “Happy birthday,” he says gently, the bed dipping more as he leans down and kisses George on the forehead.

George struggles to open his eyes and yep - that's Owen alright, kneeling on the side of his bed. “Oh yeah,” he mutters as Owen’s words sink in. “Thanks,” he manages, eyes drifting shut again.

Owen chuckles, settling more fully on the bed until he’s stretched out along George’s side over the covers. George sighs, turning towards Owen, leaning his body weight against him so they’re pressed together from shoulder to hip. Owen puts a hand on George’s bare shoulder, runs it up his neck to rest rubbing his thumb over the short hairs at the back of George’s skull. George drifts on the sensation. Owen’s body is so warm, even through the covers, and the smooth movement of his thumb of George’s head is so soothing...

George has to remind himself that he’s meant to be waking up. He pulls an arm from below the duvet and tucks his hand onto Owen’s hip, below his shirt. The warmth of his skin is intoxicating, and George finds himself mimicking the petting motion Owen had started on his hair.

“Wait,” George says slowly, as he swims up towards full consciousness. He’s in his room at Pennyhill Park. A room he’s the only one with a keycard to. “How did you-?” he asks, trusts Owen to interpret the rest.

“Stole your keycard last night,” Owen tells him. “Wanted to see you for your birthday.” He sounds so proud that George has to force his eyes back open to see it. 

Owen is, as expected, grinning ridiculously. He’s also closer than George had expected, and George takes the opportunity to lean in and kiss him properly. It’s ‘good morning’ and ‘I’m glad to see you’ - things George hasn’t actually said. George hums contentedly as he pulls back. “Lucky you were up before me,” he grumbles, not meaning it in the slightest.

“Got early meetings,” Owen pulls a face, sighing as he nestles that little bit deeper into the pillow. “Knew you’d still be sleeping.”

“What if I’d noticed?” George asks next. It’s idle - an excuse to keep Owen in - or more accurately, on - his bed, warm and focussed on him, not yet absorbed by their upcoming match. He’s more focussed on the pattern he’s tracing on Owen’s hip than the question.

“Then it wouldn’t have been a surprise,” Owen shrugs. “You weren’t in a state to notice, anyway,” he says, a smaller smug smile on his face this time.

George rolls his eyes, but can’t exactly argue. George had been rather blissed out when Owen left, cutting it slightly closer to curfew than was probably sensible - especially when carrying someone else’s keycard. “You made it back okay?” he checks.

“Yeah,” Owen confirms. “Tried to use your card on my room first, lucky no one saw. Could’ve pretended I was gonna pranking you for your birthday, I guess,” Owen trails off thoughtfully.

“With what, an early wake up call?” George asks. “Pretty sure that’s actually what you’ve done,” he points out.

“Hey!” Owen lifts his hand from George’s hair to shove at his shoulder, lightly. “I can leave,” he threatens.

“No,” George beseeches, laughing, gripping on to Owen’s hip when he feigns trying to to roll away. “Stay,” he encourages - unnecessary, as Owen is leaning back in for a laughing kiss anyway.

They’re interrupted by George’s alarm, and he reluctantly rolls off Owen to mute it.

“Anything you want to do today?” Owen asks as George sits up, making no move to do so himself.

“Not really,” George shrugs. He doesn’t make a big deal of his birthday typically, doesn’t see the need. Being remembered by his loved ones is enough for him. He’s tempted to make a joke about Owen gifting him the number 10 shirt but isn’t sure it would actually be funny. “I’m happy training,” he tells Owen.

Owen rolls his eyes. “Obsessive,” he teases.

“You get it,” George fires back, pleased when it makes Owen smile. “I should get up,” he says, reluctant, looking down at Owen.

“I should get to breakfast,” Owen agrees. He doesn’t move for a long moment, just looks up at George.

George leans in, slow. Kisses him, slow. 

“I’m glad you came,” he tells Owen. 

It’s not been long, they’ve hardly even said much to each other - but it’s a moment of peace on what will otherwise be a hectic day, a moment for them on a day which will revolve around the team. That’s a gift in itself.

“Me too,” Owen smiles. “It’s not much,” he sounds almost apologetic.

“It’s the thought that counts,” George points out. His tone is light, but he means it. It’s the consideration of the moment, the effort - however minimal - to give them this time, that means more than the time itself.

Owen’s smile softens for a moment, before his own phone alarm starts blaring. He swings himself to standing in one swift motion - revealing the inevitable consequences of lying back down after gelling your hair for the day. 

“Your hair’s a mess,” George tells him, laughing, moving to climb out of bed the same side as Owen had. “Come here,” he beckons, when Owen pulls a face and turns to the bathroom to check.

Owen reverses his course readily, standing still while George sorts out the hairs crushed by his pillow. “Better,” George declares, punctuating the statement with a brief kiss - and barely remembering not to shift the hand in Owen’s so recently fixed hair.

“All good?” Owen checks.

George nods to confirm. 

“Time to nail down how to beat Ireland then,” Owen grins at George, something sharp in it.

“Ready to show them what you can do at 10?” George asks, tone light as he mirrors Owen’s determined glint right back at him.

“You bet,” Owen replies warily - his sudden fire subdued by clear reluctance to discuss his selection over George.

“You better be - ‘cause I’m coming for that shirt,” George warns him.

“Yeah?” Owen grins, eyes lighting up. “You might have to rip it off my back,” he teases straight back.

“Oh, I think I can manage that,” George flirts.

Owen responds with only a hum, leaning in for a final kiss. It’s different to the others, charged with the competition they’re building for. Their early morning contentment has been swiftly submerged by their shared urge, their shared need, to win this match. 

“Happy birthday,” Owen bids again as he steps back, walks to George’s door.

“See you later,” George responds with a smile.

Owen leaves his room without incident and George turns to his bathroom with purpose in his stride. They’ve got a match to win, and it’s time to start doing something about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One weekend I will upload on time, one weekend... It is, however, unlikely to be this weekend as I'm going to the Sarries-Wasps semi!


	8. Chapter 8

It’s getting late at the post match dinner, the point by which half of the teams have left to either lick their wounds or celebrate more raucously in private. In fact - George looks around - yep, that’s almost all of the Irish team gone; the coaching team actually outnumber players remaining. George can’t blame them - he’d do the same in their position. He and Owen have ducked out slightly early from every other team dinner of the Six Nations, however, so he kind of feels he should stick around. They’ve tried to time it with the rush of leavers, tried to time it so they won’t be particularly noticed, but who knows if they’ve succeeded - staying around for the full length of one team dinner can hardly hurt, especially not with Owen wrapped up talking to his dad.

As George thinks that Owen looks up, eyes catching George’s where George is surveying the room. George smiles, Owen returning the expression, then looks on to see Owen’s father following Owen’s eyeline and offering a smile of his own. George raises his beer in a toast, nodding back, finds himself beckoned over. He stands, bidding those he was sat with goodbye and laughing off their ideas of just what he should do to the Irish coach. George had briefly caught up with the rest of Owen’s family earlier, but the rest of them have very sensibly used Owen’s younger brother as an excuse to retire early, so it’s only Andy left.

“Hiya,” George greets chirpily when he reaches Owen and Andy, quirking a grin at Owen. 

“We were just talking about you,” Andy says warmly - George shoots Owen a slightly wide eyed look. “Those passes you were always practicing paid off, hey?” he smiles.

“Ah, yeah, not too bad,” George replies awkwardly - remembering just how many passing sessions had involved hands far from a rugby ball. “Congratulations on the tournament, that was a brilliantly won Grand Slam,” he goes on more seriously, reaching to shake Andy’s hand.

“Thank you,” Andy nods, as George pulls a chair closer to Owen and sits down. “I’d say the same to you, but...” he trails off, grinning teasingly, an expression ridiculously similar to Owen’s.

“Dad,” Owen warns, not sharing the same expression at the moment.

“It’s not been our best campaign,” George concedes.

“You’ve played better,” Andy agrees. “And you’ll play better again, I’m sure,” he goes on, smiling more kindly.

“I hope so,” George grimaces, keeping it as light as he can. Mostly he hopes Andy is talking about England, not him personally. “Our next scoreline’ll be more like the second half, you’ll see,” he teases.

“Ah, we will indeed see,” Andy banters in return.

“Should I leave you two alone?” Owen asks, sounding peeved.

“Jealous?” Andy teases.

George just laughs, looking to Owen for what is admittedly about the first time since he’s sat down. He’d forgotten how he and Andy used to tease Owen on occasion, forgotten how fun it was. He arches an eyebrow a Owen to echo Andy’s question, smiling slyly.

“Do I need to be?” Owen asks, only looking away from George to include his father after a long moment. 

“What am I going to do, steal him away to Ireland?” Andy points out, laughing - though George isn’t sure he’s entirely comfortable with the way Andy’s sliding his gaze between them.

“You know you’ve always been my favourite Farrell,” George tells Andy, calling back to an old joke from when he and Owen were dating the first time - hoping as he makes it that Andy will remember.

Andy proves that he does, laughing heartily. 

Owen proves that _he_ does, scowling deeply.

“You know I never believed that, you terrible St Helens fan,” Andy grumbles after a minute. “And I knew just how much you liked my son,” he says pointedly - and that seems to cheer Owen up, while George just blushes, shifting in his seat. He’s glad he’s had a few weeks, and time earlier in the evening with the rest of Owen’s family, to digest the idea that people knew about his and Owen’s teenaged relationship - the comment throws him quite enough as it is.

George sneaks a look at Owen after a few seconds, when he thinks it’ll be safe, only to find him still beaming directly at George, looking far too pleased with himself. George can’t help but grin dopily back, even as he blushes harder.

“We all know the truth,” Owen teases.

George just rolls his eyes, having no comeback, trying desperately to will his blush away as Owen’s smile softens, becoming more fond.

“Well,” Andy says loudly, interrupting their moment. “This does feel like a throwback - I’d forgotten how entertaining it could be to talk to the two of you together. It’s been too long,” he finishes, smiling kindly at George once again.

“It’s good to see you too,” George replies - he had always enjoyed teasing Owen with Andy, he’d honestly forgotten. “Good to get his feet back on the ground, you know,” he goes on, jerking his head to indicate Owen. “Gotten a bit big in the head with that captain business,” he teases, looking sideways to Owen for his reaction.

“Ah, we’ll have to spend more time together, keep an eye on him,” Andy winks.

“Well, hopefully you will now,” Owen says, unthinking, clearly just trying to move beyond the ribbing. His eyes widen at the same moment Andy’s eyebrows shoot up, and George barely resists the urge to hide his face in his hands.

“Oh? And why would that be?” is all Andy says, all he needs to, while Owen is staring wide-eyed at George.

George glances around. There’s no one in ear shot. 

He and Owen haven’t talked about telling their families, not while in the bubble of the Six Nations - he thinks the both of them were half waiting to see if they could make it through this first. While George hasn’t told his family who Owen is yet he certainly hadn’t intended for them to keep their relationship a secret, especially not given that Owen’s family had known about them before. He tries to convey that to Owen with a casual shrug, something to show that he’s not bothered by the question. 

“I guess-” Owen begins, glances back to George and licks his lips nervously. “-I mean. We’re giving it another shot,” he finally manages to spit out. “Like, dating,” he clarifies after glancing around.

George marvels at the difference between this and Owen’s conversation with Eddie, when he’d talked so smoothly. Is it that family matters more? George doesn’t think so. Just the lack of preparation, then? Being almost forced into the disclosure? George can’t tell. He sneaks a hand onto Owen’s thigh under the table they’re sitting at, squeezes it in reassurance.

“Two minutes talking to you both, and I can’t say I’m surprised,” Andy smiles, and George feels the tension in Owen’s thigh dissipate. “For how long?” he asks, before George can wonder too much about that.

“Since the start of training,” Owen tells him.

“Really?” Andy asks, seeming surprised.

“Not so smart figuring that out, hm?” Owen teases.

“Well you haven’t talked about him any more than normal,” Andy says blithely. “But then I suppose your norm there has always been a bit revealing.”

George chokes on a laugh that’s far too loud, surprised, starts laughing even harder when Owen’s expression settles on an interesting mix of confused and offended - very like when a call has gone against him in a match. He quickly sobers when Andy’s gaze comes to land on him, regretting drawing his attention.

“I take it you’re doing things properly this time, hm?” Andy checks, voice mild, the stare he fixes George with anything but.

“Yes sir,” George replies, instinctive. 

“Sir?” Andy laughs. “Couldn’t get you to call me that while I was your coach.”

“Much more intimidating like this,” George smiles, trying to relax back into the banter they had before - he knows Andy, they get on, there’s no reason for nerves.

“You scared of my dad, Fordy?” Owen asks, grinning.

“Hey, he kicked me out of his house once,” George protests. “It's scarred me ever since - who knows what he’ll do!”

And just like that the three of them are laughing again, tension dispelled.

“I’d almost forgotten about that,” Andy says. “I’d do it again it a heartbeat if you start messing my boy around, hm?”

Okay, not dispelled. 

It’s not quite playful enough that George can laugh it off - and he finds part of him doesn’t want to. He doesn’t know exactly what impression Andy got of the relationship the two of them had while they were juniors, but he’s not sure it’s a good one - not sure there’s a good one to get. He wants to assure Andy that they’re taking it seriously now, that this matters to George. 

They’d been rather flippant in establishing things, with Owen’s ‘just wanting to give it a shot’, but Owen’s been a rock to George during this tournament, even when they should have felt in competition, and he hopes he’s managed to return that. It matters more than George almost thinks it should, this quickly. He doesn’t like the idea that Andy might think otherwise.

“We won’t mess around in your house then,” Owen says archly, smirking, saving George from trying to express that. “Got our own houses for that now, thanks, your opinion’s not relevant.”

“Messing around in my house, were you?” Andy asks - that same, idle tone, that same, focussed gaze.

George laughs nervously, only about 60% sure Andy is now teasing him. 

“That was over ten years ago, dad, stop threatening him,” Owen says impatiently before George can try to reply. 

“Sounds like a yes to me,” Andy arches a brow - and is thankfully interrupted by another member of the Irish coaching team before Owen starts to get really annoyed, or George is forced to scramble for a reply.

“Well, that’s my cue,” Andy says, standing, after a brief conversation. “Take care of him, hm?” he tells George - definitely more order than suggestion - as he offers a hand to shake goodbye.

“I’ll do my very best,” George replies seriously, trying to show Andy just how much he means it. “Sir,” he adds cheekily, after a moment of inspiration.

“Ah, maybe you’re okay,” Andy grins, seeming amused, pulling on their handshake to bring George in for a brief hug.

“I hate you,” Owen grumbles, standing to receive his own hug goodbye.

“Love you too son,” Andy says, quiet enough that George can barely hear.

“Then please, stop,” Owen replies, equally quiet, before the two of them break the embrace. 

Andy examines Owen for a moment. “Your mother already knows something is up, but you should tell her yourself,” is all he says in reply - but from what George can understand of Owen’s body language he seems to have relaxed, so he suspects Owen can see that his point got across.

“Congratulations again,” George offers as Andy moves to leave.

Andy acknowledges him with a smile. “I’ll see you boys around,” he says, before turning to leave with his camp.

“Well, he hates me,” George says briskly, wishing it felt more like he was joking.

“He’s an idiot,” is Owen’s first reply - not helpful. Thankfully he realises this when George fixes him with an unimpressed stare. “He doesn’t,” Owen tries, next. “He really doesn’t, he and mum both like you. They just... got a really bad impression of juniors somehow?” 

“Well I wonder where they got that from,” George arches an eyebrow.

“I don’t know!” Owen protests. “I don’t!” he insists, when George raises the other eyebrow. 

“What did you tell them about me?” George demands.

“Not much,” Owen replies, seeming confused by that fact.

“You gave them a bad impression of me without even talking about me?” George asks flatly. “Well done.”

Owen shoots him a glare, equally flat. “I talked about you loads,” he replies, in a tone that leaves the addition of ‘you dick’ unnecessary. “But they straight up asked if we were together, a couple of times, and I guess I wouldn’t really answer. I wouldn’t talk about anything like that, and they did try to pry.”

“But you reckon from what you did say that they figured out that we were messing around?” George clarifies, remembering what Owen had said previously about what his parents knew. Back at the start of the tournament - and didn’t that feel like years ago now?

Owen just nods, wincing at the memory.

“So you talked about me loads, apparently still do, but couldn’t say we were dating?” George summarises, thoughtfully. “Sounds to me like they thought you were pining,” he teases.

“What, like you’re just some big villian using me for sex?” Owen scoffs, then pauses. “Oh shit. That’s totally what they thought,” he realises. “Fuck.”

George drops his head into his hands. “Oh, this is going to be fun,” he laughs, a little despairing. “Love hearing how much you talk about me, though,” George brings up again, trying to move on from what on earth he’s going to have to do to make a better impression on Owen’s parents.

“Apparently,” Owen sounds mystified. “Didn’t know they were still paying attention.”

George laughs. “That sounds kind of sad, Owen,” he points out.

Owen rolls his eyes, smiling. “You know what I mean. Listening for stuff about you, specifically, not like to anything I say.”

“You knew they used to, then?” George teases. “Has this pining of yours been a problem long?”

“Maybe a bit,” Owen’s still smiling, his eyes sparkling. “They might’ve started pointedly asking about other players towards the end of under 20s.”

“No they didn’t!” George exclaims, laughing.

“‘Fraid so,” Owen nods ruefully. “My excuse was that we shared a room, which...”

“Oh yeah, sounds like that really helped my case,” George rolls his eyes.

“But hey - my dad deliberately told you about that,” Owen points out. “He wouldn’t tease me about it in front of you if he really didn’t want you anywhere near me.”

“Thanks, Owen, so glad to hear I’ve made it over that high bar,” George replies, sarcasm heavy. “He’s just falling back into what we used to do,” he says cynically, shaking his head. “Though I guess he liked me pretty well back then, so there are worse places to be,” George then realises.

“Yeah,” Owen agrees - but George can hear the reticence in his tone.

“What is it?” George asks, aware his tone has gone flat once again.

“Georgie-” Owen starts, clearly attempting to fob him off.

“Oh, god, it’s that bad?” George tries to joke. “Look, just... just tell me. It’s better I know if he despises me utterly, right? I can... try to suck up to him, I guess. Tweet about how great Ireland’s defence was, something like that.”

Owen seems to consider George’s words for a moment. “They just like... weren’t so happy that your parents didn’t know about you. Or us. Or, mostly, that that meant I didn’t tell them about us? It was over 10 years ago,” he then points out.

“That’s okay,” George nods, slowly, thinking fast. “Same problem, maybe - thinking I’m using you, hiding you...,” he winces. “Damn, that is a bad impression.”

“They’re just nosy bastards,” Owen says dismissively. “They can’t get annoyed that you weren’t ready to be out at _13_. It was years ago, what’s happening _now_ is what matters.”

“Guess I can’t argue on the second part,” George concedes.

“Would you really publically compliment Ireland’s defence to suck up to him?” Owen asks, sounding intrigued.

“I mean... probably, yeah,” George admits. “D’you think I need to?”

“No. It’d look desperate,” Owen warns. “And like you’re making excuses for us, maybe. And again: no, you do not need to.”

“Hmm,” George muses.

“You called him sir, twice,” Owen points out. “What more could he ask for?”

“For me not to have forced you to hide from him, or seemingly mess you around for three years in juniors?” George suggests.

“Hey - you know that’s not what happened,” Owen says, intent, leaning in towards George.

“Kinda is on the first one,” George points out.

“If I’d really needed to tell my parents, you’d’ve said it was fine,” Owen says, certainty in his voice. “You not wanting to isn’t forcing me. I didn’t see the need to either.”

George breaks eye contact, looking down at his lap. He wishes he could be as sure of that as Owen seems to be - but he remembers how scared he was, when he wasn’t with Owen. He knows - which Owen doesn’t - that he only managed to come out to his parents two years ago, still isn’t formally, properly, out to his brothers.

“And anyway - it was over ten years ago. It doesn’t matter,” Owen insists when George remains quiet. “Look, frankly it’s none of their business,” Owen says in a final tone. “I’m happy with you, so if you’re happy with me, we’re good. If they actually did hate you that would suck but a) they don’t, and b) it wouldn’t change things.”

“I just... really don’t like the idea that they thought I was using you,” George admits, still looking down. “I don’t want them to have this idea that you’re, I don’t know, just convenient to me,” he looks up, finds Owen watching him with soft eyes. “It’s insulting to both of us, really.”

“They’ll learn,” is all Owen replies.

“Well I hope it doesn’t take too long,” George says, wanting to lighten the tone. “Your dad can be kind of scary.”

“It’s all that practice yelling at rugby players,” Owen chuckles. “He doesn’t need to actually yell anymore, you can just sense it.”

“Makes sense,” George nods. “Must be part of why he’s such a good coach - he can save up all that energy from yelling and use it for thinking.”

“I’d believe it,” Owen shrugs.

George chuckles. 

They share a moment of quiet.

“I’m glad this tournament’s over,” George admits.

“God yeah,” Owen agrees, quiet but heartfelt. “Onwards and upwards, hm?”

“Hopefully,” George says ruefully.

“You straight back into things at Leicester?” Owen checks.

“Yeah,” George says. “Should be playing next Saturday. What about you, what d’you reckon?” he asks, nodding towards Owen’s leg.

“Don’t think so,” Owen grimaces. “Hoping some decent physio’ll get me ready for Leinster though.”

“It might be nice to have a weekend off,” George suggests - can’t even maintain his tone through the joke. “Yeah, you’re right,” he agrees when Owen sends him a deeply unimpressed look.

“Might have time to drive up and bother you during the week though, that could be alright,” Owen says casually.

“Yeah?” George finds himself smiling involuntarily, widens it further to show how he welcomes the idea. “That’d be great. Any evening’d probably be fine, great, just let me know. I should be free a bit the week after, actually,” George realises. “I could come down to you then?”

“That’d be great,” Owen echoes, smiling soft and small, and George has to look away before the urge to kiss him becomes overwhelming.

In doing so he notices that all the Irish team have now left, and it’s pretty much them and the England coaches left in the dining room. The coaches look intent, talking as quiet and close as Owen and George had been.

“Shall we-” George hooks a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the door.

“Oh, yeah,” George agrees, standing, and they head to the lift in the lobby.

“You going to hang out with your family tomorrow morning?” George asks.

“Yeah,” Owen nods as they wait for the lift. “Going back to theirs, just for a night. It’ll be nice to see them outside of this,” he gestures to their general rugby surroundings, “Catch up properly about more personal things.”

George nods, accepting the underlying message that Owen will tell the rest of his family tomorrow. “Nice to see the dog, I bet,” he adds as they step into the lift.

“You know it,” Owen grins. “I guess I’ll see you in a couple of days then.”

“Yeah,” George agrees. “I’ll let you know if any day doesn’t work with training, but you can probably take your pick.”

Owen leans in when George is done speaking, kisses him slow, intent enough that George feels it right down to his toes. “Something to remember me by,” he grins, as the lift stops and he pulls away.

“I’m not going to forget you,” George rolls his eyes. “Over like five days, yeah,” he scoffs. If he could he’d kiss Owen again, tell him and show him just how stupid he was being. As it is these hotel corridors are even less safe than Pennyhill Park, and he can only scoff. “I’ll see you soon,” George says pointedly, as they reach his room.

“See you soon,” Owen agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miracle of miracles, it's a weekend upload! Thanks so much to those of you who commented on the last chapter, this would not be up today without you! I also owe Sarries for winning so beautifully and giving me excited rugby energy, but I'm not so sure they'll appreciate that...


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nick Malouf has been scapegoated in this fic by virtue of getting a red card the first Tigers match I watched, and having left the club this summer. I cast no aspersions on his actual attitudes, and same goes for everyone else in this chapter.

“Fordy! We heard your boy’s gay,” Nick calls, loud, across a packed changing room.

“I’ve got a boy?” George asks mildly, heart rate picking up. What a way to phrase that. 

He tries to leave the response at that, but there’s an air of expectation - not just from Nick, but from almost the whole team. Dan and Jonny are keeping their heads down, at least. “So you thought, what, you’d see who I named? To help out someone, not just to you but to the whole team so you can gossip?” George raises an eyebrow. “You’ll have to try harder than that.”

“Half the team’s already heard it’s Farrell,” Ellis pipes up.

“And now it’s the whole team - you pleased with yourself?” George asks. It’s Tuesday, it’s been two damn days - well, and the entire of the Six Nations campaign. But seriously, can rugby players not keep information to themselves for half a second? Maybe consider not being horrendous gossips?

“So Faz _is_ gay,” Ellis checks.

“Not sure how that’s any of your business to be fair,” George replies, off hand. Yes, Owen knew this would happen, and George knows he’s accepted it - but George won’t be the one to out him directly. He won’t give his team the impression that gossiping about someone’s sexuality is acceptable.

“Makes it our business if he talks about it,” Nick shrugs.

“Yeah? And your house renovation is Owen’s business too? Because you’ve talked about it to us, so it’s, what, every rugby player’s business? Is that how that works?” George asks, indulging the flare of impatience that had sparked in him. The slight release of tension doesn’t help his growing nerves as much as he’d hoped it would.

“Reckon that affected the team? Unsettled them, messed with their play?” someone suggests, quiet - a voice George clearly wasn’t meant to hear, barely did.

“Anyone suggests that again and they’ll be finding their own problems with team unity,” George replies, loudly. That anger does help settle him - there's no room for the rolling nausea with that hard rock of fury sinking through him. He doesn’t look to where he heard the voice, consciously chooses not to know who it was.

“Yeah, that’s bullshit,” Jonny pipes up, shaking his head. “We knew Faz was gay from the start of the tournament - and Faz’d never do anything to mess with the team. Never. You don’t know that, you don’t know Faz.”

“And if you don’t know Faz, it’s not your business - same as who you’re dating isn’t his,” George puts in. That’s the thing, isn’t it? These guys don’t even know Owen, but they’ll feel free to comment on him, speculate about his life, all because he’s not straight.

“Seems like it’s your business though - heard you were with him when he told the coaches,” Nick says, a hint of speculation in the words.

“Gossip gets around fast, doesn’t it?” George comments, as mildly as he’s able. Has someone been telling a blow by blow account of the whole camp? “Didn’t think that was quite so exciting,” he shrugs. “I’ve known Owen for more than 10 years - shocking as it might seem, we have occasionally talked about things that aren’t rugby.” 

George can’t quite bring himself to say they’ve talked about who Owen dates - not least because his palms are sweating quite enough as is, he doesn’t need to add discussion of Owen dating to the mix - but mostly because it wouldn’t be true. He hadn’t even known about the Sarries setting Owen up until the Six Nations camp; it’s one of those few fine lines of reserve between them that George keeps stumbling across, enjoys blowing away. He does manage to smile, however, trying to lighten the conversation - bless his brother, he laughs obligingly. 

“It is taking a risk though,” Mat Tait muses. “If someone reacts badly.”

George just manages to hold back from glaring. Mat’s senior in the team, his caution will not help, will legitimise both the fears of any other queer players there might be on the squad, and the judgements of those who’re reacting badly. “Can’t have it both ways,” he points out, more edge to his voice than he’d quite like to have. “Earlier it was everyone’s business, everyone gets to weigh in, now, what, no one can mention it? Gay players don’t get to discuss their personal lives with their mates because some idiot might react badly?” It doesn’t just apply to gay players, of course, but George is hyper-aware of his every word choice and hadn’t wanted to use the term ‘queer’, not in this environment.

George looks to Tom for the first time in the conversation - he seems to be listening closely, but just shakes his head minutely when George tries to signal him to cut the chat off.

“That’s not what happened thought, is it?” Nick pushes. “He made an announcement, I heard.”

“Christ, did someone video the whole damn camp?” George snaps, exasperated. “Wait, clearly not - then you’d actually have accurate information to gossip about.” He doesn’t expand, at the point of just wanting the conversation to be over no matter how it ends.

“I asked Faz why he’d seen the coaches so early in camp, he told me,” Dan speaks up for the first time. “It was an announcement as much as this conversation is an announcement to everyone else in the room. No big deal,” he shrugs, wanders out of the changing room to presumably go home.

George breathes out a sigh. More senior support, that’s good. Dan’s nonchalant attitude might well be better than George’s defensiveness. Now if only Tom would say something. Oh, and he so wishes Ben was here. George takes a moment to indulge that longing, then steels himself to speak again - someone needs to, for Owen, for all the other queer players hidden away in rugby. 

“Owen told Ben when he pushed him about if he was dating, that’s how it started. Just talking about his life, same as you lot do - god knows I’ve heard more I care to about some of your girlfriends,” he lightens his tone, makes it teasing. Rugby players have a history over the last weeks of going for banter over talking about coming out, hopefully they’ll do so again.

“Too true,” Joe laughs along, pulling a face. Sometimes George really loves his brother.

But Mat is nodding thoughtfully, still on topic. “I get that,” he says. “You’re right, I hadn’t thought about it like that.”

Probably hadn’t thought about it at all, and yet you still felt able to comment on it, George thinks sarcastically - while smiling at Mat warmly.

“So he wasn’t risking anything, just chatting about his life - but he felt the need to prewarn the coaches about it?” Nick asks sarcastically.

And okay, that’s officially it. George has had enough of playing nice, isn’t sure he’s managed it very well anyway. They could go round in barely-polite circles all day, or he could just get to the point. “You can’t control who’s apparently a secret homophobe, but their reaction is their responsibility and fully their fucking problem to get over. Not Owen’s or anyone else’s to tiptoe around. And while we’re on the topic of coaches: I hear anyone make a single comment that crosses a line, to or about anyone - don’t think I won’t take it straight to them, or to a ref,” George breaks eye contact with Nick to look around the room. “Banter’s banter, but if anyone’s a dick about this I will absolutely be a dick right fucking back. There’s a reason it was me in that room with Owen,” he tells them, voice ringing with defiance. 

“Okay,” Tom says - because of course now he steps in. Not that George can complain, he’s actually trembling slightly. “I think that’s enough of that conversation - no one is going to say anything to Farrell at matches, and if they do it won’t just be Fordy dealing with them, alright? He’s right, it’s none of our business. He’s gay, everyone knows - so what? Get on with your own boring lives.”

Credit where credit’s due, everyone does at least listen to Tom and finally start getting changed again. George takes a deep breath, takes his phone out to mask the shaking in his hands. He’s got a message from Owen - he’s started the drive up, should only get to George’s house about 10 minutes after George at this rate. George catches himself smiling down at his phone and quickly schools his face into a more neutral expression - but his shoulders have dropped, and the shaking doesn’t seem so bad when he types out an acknowledgement.

He opens their family chat next and, huh. His dad wants to visit. Tonight. He’s coming back from the south and would be coming past Leicester around rush hour, wants to stop off for an early dinner with Joe and George to avoid the traffic. He’s nominated George’s house, as the place most convenient for him. George feels his shoulders start to tense again, but at least his hands are still calm. 

“You seen dad’s message?” Joe asks, wandering over already changed.

“Yeah,” George says, still staring at his phone. He could fob off his dad and Joe, just meet up with the whole family at the weekend as planned, but he finds he doesn’t want to. And he’s certainly not going to ask Owen to turn around so he can spend one extra meal with his family. So he guesses... this is it. Introduction time.

“I was thinking I could just come straight to yours?” Joe suggests. “Connie’s out for the afternoon anyway.”

“Uh,” George stalls “That’d be great,” he says genuinely - in any other circumstances it would be. “But I’ve got someone coming over.” George lowers his voice as he speaks, glancing up at Ellis walking past.

“Oh yeah?” Joe sounds intrigued, but seems to have picked up on George’s caution and doesn’t push it.

“Yeah. You’ll meet them tonight, probably - just give me until Dad arrives?” George asks.

“Okay,” Joe agrees easily. “I’ll see you at about five then?” 

“See you at five,” George confirms.

“And your mysterious someone,” Joe winks, clapping George on the shoulder before walking away.

And his mysterious someone. 

George nods, stares blankly at his phone for a few seconds before confirming arrangements with his dad. What a day.

~~~

Between it all George has barely been in the house five minutes before Owen is knocking on the door. George greets him with a smile, lets him in quickly.

“Hey,” George says, immediately pulling Owen in for a long kiss.

“Hey to you too,” Owen smiles when they step apart. “Missing me already?” he teases.

“Desperately,” George answers sarcastically. Well. Mostly sarcastically. He’d kind of gotten used to having Owen around, despite the small amount of privacy they’d actually had.

“Can I take your bag?” he mocks, saccharine sweet, an imitation of how awkward Owen had been when they’d met up just five weeks ago.

Owen retaliates by swinging said bag at George’s legs, failing miserably to hide a grin behind a scowl. 

George leaps neatly out of the way, laughing.

“Footwork,” Owen comments, impressed.

George grins. “C’mon,” he beckons. “Let’s put that in my room.”

“Your bedroom? That’s very forward,” Owen teases, following him.

“Oh, sorry, I can offer the spare room if you’d rather,” George replies, enjoying the banter.

“Not a complaint,” Owen clarifies, dropping his bag the instant they enter the room and stepping up close behind George, wrapping his arms around him. “Hi,” he says again, squeezing tightly before starting to kiss George’s neck.

George drops his head to the side for just a moment. It’s tempting, to let Owen whisk him straight into bed and deal with his family coming later - but they don’t have that long, and he’d rather it wasn’t immediately obvious what they’d been up to when his dad and brother arrive.

“I think we already did greetings,” he says wryly, stepping away.

“We can do them again,” Owen suggests.

George laughs. “No, come on,” he insists. “Come sit downstairs, we’ll put the fire on.”

“Sold,” Owen agrees instantly, trailing George back downstairs.

They settle in front of the gas fire, close, soaking up warmth from the flames and each other.

“How was training?” Owen asks, absently taking George’s hand.

“Alright,” George hedges. “It’s good to be back with the lads.”

George reckons he could have sounded more sincere, and Owen’s surprised look suggests he agrees, but that’s not the conversation he wanted to have first - though it’ll have to happen at some point.

“Dad messaged me and Joe during training - he had meetings down south, wanted to pop by for dinner at mine on his way back,” George tells Owen - starting the conversation he _does_ want to have first. “They should get here around five - if that’s okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” Owen agrees. “I haven’t seen them in ages, it’ll be nice,” he smiles. 

George smiles back, glad Owen is happy to meet his family, doesn’t see it as too much of a disruption of their time together. George _is_ a little disappointed about interrupting their evening, truth be told, given that he’ll be spending time with his whole family come the weekend - but he’d never brush family off, and he’s already set to see Owen again next week anyway. 

“Does your dad know?” Owen asks.

George shakes his head. “Still just that I’ve got a boyfriend, not that it’s you. And Joe knows I’ve got someone over, nothing else. He doesn’t... necessarily know I’m queer,” George admits slowly. “I think he does,” he assures Owen hastily. “But we’ve never quite had a conversation about it.”

Owen’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Fun,” is all he comments, squeezing George’s hand.

“Could be,” George agrees. “You don’t have to meet them,” he offers. “I can fob them off til the weekend.”

“If you don’t want me to-” Owen begins.

“No,” George interrupts, wants to be clear. “I do, I don’t want to hide you away-” the unspoken ‘this time’ hangs heavy in the wake of their conversation with Andy only a few days ago “-we don’t have to do it like this, is all.”

“You think it’ll go badly?” Owen questions, starting to seem concerned.

George shakes his head. “No,” he denies. “It should be fine - but you don’t need to be here, ready to spring at them, like some pop up novelty. I was thinking about telling them this weekend anyway, I could do that. You could just meet them - better,” he stumbles through the explanation, hopes he’s made sense.

“I wasn’t kidding about fun,” Owen says lightly. “You want me to miss out on their reactions?”

“They might not be that fun,” George warns - but relaxes in the face of Owen’s casual, persistent support. "How were your family?"

"Fine, we've discussed this," Owen dismisses quickly. "But speaking of not fun, what happened at training?” Owen asks. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that.”

George groans, tipping his head back on the seat before steeling himself to tell Owen. “Tigers know you’re gay.”

“Well that explains why you didn’t ask if it was okay that Joe comes round,” Owen says thoughtfully, cocking his head to the side. “How’d it come up?”

“They asked me about it,” George says.

“You?” Owen asks.

George nods. “Knew I was the one who’d been with you, everything. Tried to trick me into confirming it for the whole squad, as if I’m some kind of idiot,” he scoffs.

“But someone did?” Owen checks.

“Jonny,” George tells him, rueful. “In defending you, to be fair, but - they all know, for certain.”

“All?” Owen repeats.

George nods. “Middle of the changing room, right after training - think literally everyone on the squad was there.”

“Elliot messaged me - Wasps had basically the same thing. Wonder if it’s like that everywhere, if everyone knows,” Owen says quietly - then visibly shakes it off. “Well, knew it’d happen sooner or later,” he says, chipper. “Good to track how it’s spreading, I guess - thanks,” he’s sincere, on the thanks, but goes on before George has enough time to tell him that they’re in no way warranted. “That’s enough serious talk for now - what’s for dinner?” he asks.

George goes easily with the subject change, the gentle pull closer into Owen’s body. Conversation lightens after that, with only a brief dip for discussion of Owen’s injury. They’re laughing together by the time the knock comes on George’s door.

George checks his phone, surprised - it’s 5:04pm, and he’s got a message from Joe letting him know he’s on his way over.

“That went fast,” he murmurs, standing to get the door.

Owen hums agreement. “I’ll wait in here?” he suggests.

It’s probably best - George isn’t expecting ridiculous reactions, but you never know. Best not to have them on the doorstep.

“I’ll prewarn them,” he agrees.

“Not too much!” Owen objects as George leaves the room. “I want fun reactions, remember!”

“Yeah, yeah,” George waves him off, laughing as he walks to the door. It’s his dad, first - though Joe can’t be far away.

“Hi dad,” George says, returning the greeting hug. “Joe’s just on his way,” he tells him, leading the way through to the lounge. “And my boyfriend’s here,” he adds nonchalantly, walking into the room.

“Hi,” Owen greets, stepping forwards to shake Mike’s hand. “It’s been too long,” he says, when Mike fails to talk.

“I - Yeah,” Mike agrees, blinking at Owen, bewildered. “You're- dating?” he asks.

“Yep,” Owen confirms cheerfully.

“Since the start of Six Nations training,” George elaborates.

“Okay,” Mike nods slowly. “Okay.”

George exchanges a look with Owen - this doesn’t seem fun to him - and is a little relieved when the doorbell rings again. “I'll get it,” he offers quickly, escaping the room.

George takes a deep breath on the short walk to the door - there’s entertainment in here, there has to be. If Owen can find it, so can he, he thinks, opening the door.

“Hi,” George greets Joe, smiling in welcome.

“Dad already here?” Joe asks, glancing around.

“Yeah, in the lounge,” George says, stepping back to let Joe in.

“Your mystery someone left?” Joe asks.

“No, my boyfriend’s in the lounge,” George tells him, turning away before he can see the flash of surprise. “Come on,” he beckons, leading the way. 

“Boyfriend this time is it?” Joe comments lightly.

George just nods.

“Been a while since- oh,” Joe cuts himself off as they step into the room and he sees Owen.

“Hiya,” Owen grins, waving.

“Hi,” Joe says slowly, sounding shocked. “Good to see you again, man,” he says, recovering, stepping forwards to shake Owen’s hand. “Hi dad,” he adds.

“Wait - what do you mean ‘been a while’?” George says, suddenly registering Joe’s words.

“I mean, ‘been a while’ since-,” Joe gestures at Owen. “The last boyfriend.”

“Am I a stand in for all of George’s ex-boyfriends now, or what?” Owen asks, laughing, while George is still blinking in shock.

“Nah mate,” Joe laughs too. “You’re a stand in for you.”

“You _knew_?” George demands.

“You were not subtle as kids,” Joe tells him. “Really, really not subtle. Dad must’ve-”

Mike just shakes his head.

“Huh,” Joe sounds surprised. “Guess he didn’t spend as much time with just you two - but when we were out playing? Not subtle,” he repeats.

George just - stares. All this time. All this time making little comments, dropping hints, not knowing if Joe had got that he was bi but being unable to take a bigger step. All this time, and Joe had known about Owen. George had thought no one knew, and all this time...

Owen snorts.

George turns to him, confused, to find Owen burying his face in his hands, trying to restrain laughter. Owen clearly gives up the fight when they make eye contact, allows through what are first giggles and then full blown gales of laughter

“Sorry, Georgie,” Owen manages, “but your face -” and with that he’s off again.

George rolls his eyes, fighting back the smile twitching the corners of his mouth. “You wanted a good reaction,” he points out. “Fuck you,” he adds, off hand, when that just sets Owen going again.

“Later,” Owen offers, winking outrageously.

George is hit by a blinding wave of _want_ , strong enough to overwhelm any potential embarrassment. He barely even notices his dad pulling a face at Owen’s words.

“Not subtle,” Joe mock coughs, before laughing and shaking his head.

George decides to end that conversation there, offering drinks and taking orders for takeaway - because fuck if he’s cooking for four (ex-)rugby players. Owen follows George into the kitchen ostensibly to start making drinks while George calls for food, but also to give them time to talk, and Joe and his dad their own space too.

“That went well,” Owen comments, once George is off the phone.

“Yeah,” George agrees, letting out an explosive breath. “I can’t believe Joe knew,” he shakes his head.

“I could tell,” Owen teases.

“Oh, fuck you,” George rolls his eyes but going easy when Owen pulls him in with an arm around his waist.

“Later,” Owen repeats - George hears his smile in his voice before feeling it pressed against his temple, a touch that turns to a warm kiss.

“Is that a promise?” George flirts, pulling away to make the tea as the kettle boils.

“You bet,” Owen grins, a sharp edge to it.

George subdues that spike of heat as best he can, finishing off the tea. Owen watches him, ferries the milk back to the fridge and takes George by the hips before he can carry the two mugs of tea he’s picked up back to the lounge.

George leans up readily for the kiss, full of promise and warmth. “Later,” he echoes when they’ve parted, licking his lips and watching Owen’s eyes track the movement.

Happy he’s left Owen with at least as much to think about as Owen had intended to leave him, George smirks, walking back to the lounge.

George smiles at his dad and Joe when they look up on he and Owen re-entering the room. “Alright?” he says, passing the first mug to Joe.

“Just catching dad up on training today,” Joe tells him, accepting his mug with a nod of thanks.

“Oh, fun,” George grimaces, passing the second mug off to his dad and moving to the sofa next to his dad and Joe, settling in next to Owen. “Thanks for your support on that by the way,” George says - completely meaning it while simultaneously half wishing Joe had spoken up more. 

“You had it handled,” Joe dismisses. “Owen couldn’t have asked for a better defender,” he adds cheekily.

“It sounds like you spoke well,” Mike puts in.

“My knight in shining armour, were you?” Owen asks, eyes sparkling at George as he just rolls his eyes.

George snorts, shaking his head. “Hardly.”

“He kind of was,” Joe replies seriously. “Threatened to take it straight to coaches or refs if he heard any shit, it got a bit scary.”

“Nick’s an idiot,” is all George says in response.

“My knight in shining armour,” Owen repeats, quieter. It’s still sarcastic, but the look in his eyes as he squeezes George’s thigh, leaving his hand there, is anything but.

“Yours and mine and every other queer player’s,” George dismisses. “Someone had to speak up.”

“Nick’s the one to worry about then - Malouf?” Owen checks.

“Nah,” Joe shakes his head. “I’m telling you, they won’t try anything. George was scary.”

George just pulls a face. “Dan was better,” he deflects.

“Really?” Owen sounds surprised.

“Made it a total non issue, it was great,” George tells him.

“Huh,” is Owen’s only response. “I take it you didn’t manage to do that then?” he teases, after a moment.

“Have you ever seen him in defence mode?” Joe gestures to George. “Course he didn’t.”

“I wasn’t that bad,” George grumbles.

“Knight in shining armour,” Owen sing-songs, winking at George when they make eye contact.

George scowls to hide the smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, taking a sip of his too hot tea to hide his face.

“How long have you guys been back together, anyway?” Joe asks.

“Since the start of Six Nations training,” Owen tells him.

Joe blows out a breath. “Fun tournament,” he comments.

“It was a silver lining,” George shrugs, not expecting the bashful smile that generates from Owen.

“And Joe said you were together as kids - at Harpenden?” Mike asks, trying to catch up.

“Yeah,” George acknowledges. 

“And as England juniors,” Joe pipes up. “I told you - not subtle,” he adds, when George looks at him in surprise.

“Does Jacob-?” George asks, not quite a full question.

“He didn’t know at school,” Joe shakes his head. “But he asked me if you were dating back in under 20s, so he won’t be too surprised.”

“I was gonna tell him and mum at the weekend,” George says, looking at his dad and Owen to include them in the information.

Owen just shrugs, smiling slightly to show his acceptance, and Mike nods.

“Mum won’t be surprised either, she totally knew,” Joe informs him.

“I had figured that much out,” George says pointedly.

“I can’t believe dad _didn’t_ know,” Joe says. “George talked about him all the time,” he exclaims, to Mike.

“They _were_ rooming together!” Mike defends. 

“You almost caught us in Argentina,” Owen says, head picking up as though he’s suddenly remembered it. “One of the first couple of times after St George’s, and you nearly walked right in on us.”

“I think I’d blocked that memory out,” George says wonderingly as it all comes back. “You were chasing us off the pitch after we’d stayed kicking,” he expands, when his dad looks to be wracking his brain for a corresponding memory. “Owen pretended he’d been tackling me - terrible cover,” he teases, rolling his eyes.

“Well, it worked on me,” Mike shrugs, clearly giving up on finding his own recollection.

“I thought you were a goner after that,” Owen says to George, casual. “Thought there was no way we’d keep-” he doesn’t finish the sentence, there being no really family friendly phrase to tack on.

“Take more than that to get rid of me,” George smirks.

“So it seems,” Owen grins. “Ten years later and you’re back again,” he sighs dramatically, laughing as George squawks with offence and cuffs him around the head.

“No training today?” Mike asks Owen, when it becomes clear that George has no comeback for that.

“There is,” Owen says. “But - resting,” he grimaces, tapping his injured thigh.

“Tough luck,” Joe commiserates.

“I should be back for Leinster, so it’s not too bad,” Owen downplays it. “And it let me come up here,” he smiles at George.

“Silver lining,” George repeats, smiling back

Conversation flows easily after that, a little rehashing of the Six Nations, more focus on Leicester and Saracens’ more positive recent form and upcoming matches. There’s even some non-rugby chat, eventually. Time seems to fly by until the meal is finished, and Mike heading out the door to drive the rest of his way home.

“It’s been a pleasure to see you again,” he says to Owen, shaking his hand. “It’s a big thing you’re doing, you should be proud of yourself.”

“Thank you,” Owen says evenly, the tips of his ears turning pink. “It’s only the lads, not like media,” he downplays. “Not yet.”

“Stop embarrassing my boyfriend,” George says playfully, giving Owen a thoughtful look at his last words

“But I’ve got so many missed years to catch up on,” Mike points out, grinning. “And you should be proud too,” he tells George seriously. “It takes guts to stand up like you did at training. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks dad,” George mutters, ducking his head. “Get home safe,” he bids, hugging his dad goodbye. “I’ll see you at the weekend.”

“See you at the weekend,” Mike agrees, and leaves, Joe following quickly behind him.

“Now, I believe I made you a promise,” Owen says into George’s ear, wrapping his arms around George’s waist from behind.

“I believe you did,” George agrees, leaning into Owen’s hold for a moment before disentangling them to lead Owen upstairs. The dirty dishes, any further conversations about his family - it can all wait. Time to focus on them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A second on-schedule upload in a row, who even am I?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: the first scene of this chapter is set the second week after the Six Nations, a week of Champions Cup matches where Leicester/George weren’t playing and Saracens/Owen played Leinster, and the latter two are set the next week after Sarries have lost to Leinster, pre Tigers-Bath at Twickenham, the week in which Israel Folau claimed God's plan for gay people was 'hell'.

Owen is in a good mood when he gets home from training and George perks up to see it - and just to see Owen, truth be told.

“Good news?” George asks, following Owen to the kitchen as he starts making tea.

“Oh, about-?” Owen taps his thigh. “Nah, still 50-50 - better than it could be.”

“What’s got you so happy then?” George asks lightly.

“Can’t I just be pleased to see you?” Owen mirrors George’s tone, pulling him in to a kiss with a hand on the small of his back.

“Seems unlikely,” George muses, squeezing Owen’s hips.

Owen laughs gently, resting his head on George’s hair briefly. “Told the lads I’ve got a boyfriend.”

Owen says it casually, but George can’t help the way he immediately tenses up.

“They saw this,” Owen goes on, still relaxed though he must have felt George’s response. He pulls the collar of his t shirt to the side to show a red rash of stubble burn, and-

“Are those teeth marks?” George asks, incredulous.

“That’s what Lozo asked,” Owen tells him, amused.

George leans up to lay a kiss on the marks before Owen covers them back up. “Sorry,” he murmurs, not feeling particularly repentant as Owen shivers. He hadn’t even known he’d left them, guesses the irritation from his stubble had made them easy to create.

“Sure you are,” Owen sounds about as convinced as George had repentant. “Leave them any higher and everyone’ll end up finding out,” he warns - not sounding entirely like he's joking. “The lads were great,” Owen gets back to the main point. “Typical banter, bit of ribbing - all good.”

“That’s great,” George smiles genuinely.

“Brits invited you to Leinster, Jamie wants to meet you - well, everyone did really, he just started it.”

George doesn’t know what to say to that, settles for trying not to tense as badly as he had last time.

“Okay?” Owen asks gently, looking at George seriously as he ignores the click of the kettle boiling.

“Yeah,” George nods. He tries to imagine it, getting introduced as Owen’s boyfriend, sitting with him as a partner, in another team’s post match ritual. He can’t.

“You don’t sound too sure,” Owen points out. His voice is amused, carefully light, but the corners of his mouth are pulling down.

“I really hadn’t thought about it, them knowing. Just trying to feel it out,” George tells him, quirking a self deprecating grin in an attempt at reassurance. “It’s fine,” he says, more sure. “I’d never ask you to not tell them anyway, but - I don’t even want to.” 

Owen talking around their relationship, denying it, the way he no longer has to his sexuality - no, that’s not something George would ask of him. But more than that, he doesn’t even like the idea. Sure, it shields them - him - a little more, theoretically, but he doesn’t want Owen pretending he’s single, denying them to his teammates, his friends.

“I am gonna try not to let them find out you’re a player,” Owen offers.

“That’s probably sensible,” George agrees. “But seriously - I reacted badly but I really don’t mind you telling them, yeah? I’m glad they were good. And - don’t stress about the rugby thing too hard,” George shrugs, not liking the idea of Owen working to hide them. “A lot of guys play rugby. Keep my name out of it and you’re pretty much fine.”

Owen levels a thoughtful look at George as he pulls away to make them tea. “I know you don’t want to, but just to be clear - you could tell Tigers, yeah? That you’ve got a boyfriend.”

George nods, accepting the permission. “Already told one,” he points out.

Owen rolls his eyes. “But the others - so long as they don’t figure out it’s me, it’s fine.”

It - stings, just a touch, to hear Owen say that. George knows it’s stupid - it’s exactly what he’d said to Owen. Neither of them want their relationship commented on, or known about in the England structure, that’s all it is, but - it stings. “Okay,” he agrees. “I’ll bear it in mind.”

“You’re very unbothered about this,” Owen comments. “I worried, a bit, on the drive back - thought I should’ve talked to you before.”

“We should’ve discussed it,” George pulls a face. “But you couldn’t really’ve denied it, with -” he taps at where the mark on Owen’s shoulder is hidden. “If it’s anyone’s fault it’s mine. Or maybe I should blame you?” he teases.

“Oh, I’m happy to take the credit,” Owen smirks before turning serious again. “I didn’t have to pin it on a boyfriend, to be fair, I _could_ ’ve got away with it.”

George frowns. “I’m glad you didn’t,” he says, surprised himself at how badly that sits with him, the idea of Owen passing him off as some fling. It’s not as if Sarries know it’s him, after all, so why should it matter? 

“Yeah?” Owen cocks his head, looking at George curiously.

“Don’t want them setting you up again, don’t want the competition,” George jokes.

“They wouldn’t stand a chance,” Owen scoffs.

George is already pulling Owen in for a kiss while he talks, has to delay it briefly until he can get his smile under control. “They better not,” he murmurs, before connecting their lips.

“Possessive,” Owen says, arching a brow, when they part.

“Apparently,” George agrees, digging his fingers into the mark on Owen’s shoulder just lightly.

~~~

George is in a good mood as Tigers filter into the Twickenham changing rooms after their Captain’s Run - his kicking had gone well, and a match against Bath means an excellent opportunity to see friends from his old club. Before that, though, he’s seeing Owen. It’s the third week after the Six Nations and the third week they’ve managed to find time for each other. This particular meeting is a bit of a stretch, a long journey to Owen’s for only a few hours spent together before George has to return to the team hotel for the evening, but when Owen had offered George had accepted, knowing it was unlikely they would manage to find time for each other in the upcoming few weeks, as the season draws to a close.

The team get changed slowly, a good buzz from practice permeating the room and leading to louder than usual laughter, more outrageous than usual banter. These lads are on the up, and they know it. George loves playing in teams feeling like that, feeling that good.

“Shit, did you see what Folau said?” Jonny asks the room at large, looking up from his phone.

George just rolls his eyes, deciding immediately not to let mention of Folau wreck his good mood. “About two days ago, yeah,” he replies, hoping the conversation will stay that short, or move on to ribbing Jonny for being forever behind on news.

“What a dick,” Matt Toomua puts in, shaking his head. “Should’ve known when he spoke up against gay marriage, I guess.”

“He did?” Jonny asks, putting his phone down to pull his shoes on.

“Yeah,” Matt confirms. “Made a point to say it after Wallabies came out for the ‘yes’ campaign, didn’t make himself too popular.”

“D’you reckon they’ll do anything now?” George asks, drawn into the conversation despite himself.

Matt pulls a face. “Probably not,” he admits ruefully. “He’s too damn good.”

“Shame,” George muses.

“He has a right to express his opinion,” Mat Tait puts in, standing to head back to the team coach.

“He does,” George agrees. “And I have a right to express mine - I’d rather play Australia without him.” He’s glad when Mat just laughs, heading off to talk to Coley without any more input.

“Surprised to hear you agree with that,” Matt says, looking at George oddly.

“He has a right to say whatever he wants - and if he wants to say shit like that, if he wants to hurt that many people, Wallabies have the right to drop him for it,” George expands. “Personally I think they should scare him, drop him for the summer to see if that shuts him up, but I guess we’ll see.”

“D’you think Owen’s seen it?” Jonny asks, looking up from the article he’d gone back to reading.

“Mate, I think you’re the last rugby player in the country to see it,” George ribs gently. 

Jonny just pulls a face, but Matt is looking thoughtful.

“You’d think there must be a gay player on Wallabies,” he says. “Or somewhere in the league, who plays with him - definitely against him. That must suck.”

“Yeah,” George agrees, having already considered and pitied the hypothetical guys. “Though I guess it is good motivation if you’re playing him, show him ‘god’s plan’ for us includes us thrashing him,” George jokes.

It’s the kind of casual inclusion, tacit admission he’s made a million times, had brushed off a million times - but for some reason this one sticks.

“‘Us’?” Matt asks, cocking his head to the side curiously, voice low.

“You’re gay?” Jonny asks, blinking in surprise as he catches on to Matt’s suggestion.

“No,” George denies - it’s true, after all. But it still feels dishonest, knowing they’ll assume he’s straight. “I’m bi,” he adds, rushed, making a decision as the surprise at being noticed abates. He knows Matt and Jonny, is close with them outside of the team - he doesn’t want to mislead them. Not mentioning his sexuality is one thing, a decision he’s largely happy to stick to, but George doesn’t want to imply that he’s straight, even if the only reason for the implication is his friends’ assumptions. “I doubt Folau would care for the difference unless I plan to ‘repent’ and only date women,” he says wryly.

“You do only date women,” Jonny says, confused, presumably remembering the two terrible dates with women George had been on at the start of his stint at Tigers, the more successful girlfriend he’d occasionally talked about at England camps - though never around Owen. 

“Nope,” George shakes his head. “It is - or seems - simpler, so I did for a while, but,” he pulls a face. “Not worth it.”

“Met a guy who made you change your mind, did you?” Matt teases gently.

“Not exactly,” George scoffs a denial - unconvincingly, as he’s midway through realising that shit, that kind of is what happened. If anything it shows how weak his commitment to only dating girls actually had been - there’d been that guy in Bath, and now Owen. He might not have been looking for guys, but coming across the right ones had blown away any pretence at performing heterosexuality. 

“Sure,” Matt says skeptically, smiling at George warmly.

George smiles sheepishly back, then glances around the mostly empty changing room. Ellis catches his eye where he’s sat nearby talking to Telusa, sends him a friendly nod, an unexpectedly warm smile. George has no idea if he’s heard. George nods back, the nerves he’d been expecting the whole conversation starting to finally rise, before ducking his head to tie his shoelaces.

“Ready?” he asks Matt and Jonny, standing to head to the team bus.

“Ready,” Jonny agrees, and Matt stands to join them.

“Are you telling-?” Matt gestures to the locker room as a whole.

George grimaces. “Not really,” he admits. “But I guess - I’m not exactly hiding it.”

Matt nods. “I won’t say anything.”

“Me neither,” Jonny agrees, earnest.

George nods, smiling, to accept their words. He’s done this carelessly, he realises, but it’s too late now.

~~~

George keeps thinking about how carelessly he's done things the whole journey to Owen's - and it's not a quick journey. He’d backed himself into a corner with only one acceptable way out, and while he's not unhappy to have told Matt and Jonny - it had actually felt good in the moment - he doesn't know who else might have heard.

The information isn’t under his control, anymore. He’d told Ben long enough ago that he trusts he’s not suddenly going to tell anyone, that the information is safe there. But Matt? Jonny? Only time will tell if they’re safe too. George reckons everyone has one person they tell all secrets to, their own and everyone else’s. He’s pretty sure that in the case of those two it’ll be their wives, so he should be safe with the rest of the lads, but if Ellis had overheard... In that case, all bets are off. Whoever Ellis’ ‘just one person’ is they’re surely rugby associated, and that’s how Owen’s sexuality got around so fast. George really doesn’t want the same thing to happen with his own.

It shouldn’t, he knows, knows that he’s probably at least safe within the team just by the nature of convenient friendships. Sarries had kept it quiet, after all, it was the mix of teams within England that opened the whole thing up. It’s just the not knowing, not knowing who knows and not knowing who may at any second be told - that’s what’s getting to him.

George tries to shake his thoughts off when Owen opens the door - they only have a few short hours together, he doesn’t want to waste them wallowing in trouble of his own making. Not even trouble, yet, he corrects himself - potential trouble. 

George focuses on returning the warm greeting Owen gives, following him through to the kitchen. They’re getting into a routine, now, with no discussion before Owen puts the kettle on for both of them. They’ll settle in the lounge, once the tea is made, in seats George is rapidly starting to think of as ‘theirs’.

George gets into Owen’s space as the kettle is boiling, wrapping an arm around his waist and letting out a hum of contentment when Owen pulls him into a full embrace in response. He drops his head onto Owen’s shoulder, squeezing him tight to further express his approval.

“Alright?” Owen asks quietly.

George just shakes his head minutely, not looking up. “Later,” he deflects. “How about you? How’s the mood at Sarries?”

“Motivated,” Owen settles on. The loss to Leinster had hit them hard, but George can well imagine that as Saracens’ response. 

Owen kisses George just behind his ear, about the only place he can reach with George refusing to emerge from Owen’s shoulder. It’s warm there, and if he doesn’t want to deal with the rest of the world he doesn’t have to.

“I feel bad for Saints,” George responds wryly, smiling despite it being hidden away.

Owen just hums acknowledgement. “How was Captain’s Run?” he asks - tentative, like he thinks that might be what George doesn’t want to discuss.

“Good,” George replies, surfacing from Owen’s shoulder to look at him reassuringly. “We’re feeling pretty motivated too - hoping the Bath lads’ll still want to meet up after the match, could get brutal.”

Owen smiles. “Ah, I’m sure they will,” he says.

The kettle clicks, boiling, and Owen ducks in for a brief kiss before releasing George to make them both tea. 

It’s silly to spend their time together dwelling on the time apart coming up, but George finds himself watching Owen move easily around his home, thinking about how far it is from his own. George had missed Owen more than he’d expected, going from living in each other’s pockets to only seeing each other a couple of days a week. It had also been nice, almost, a demonstration of ‘distance makes the heart grow fonder’ in how George had looked forward to every visit, treasured the time they did get together. He’s not looking forward to the upcoming four weeks, with no visits sorted out. Saracens crashing out of the Champions Cup should have worked for them, but Mark McCall had decided to fly Sarries out to Valencia for team bonding. It’s balance, George guesses, for the surprising amount of time they have managed to spend together so far. But that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

George pulls himself out of his thoughts - again - as Owen presents him with a mug, taking it with a word of thanks. They head through to the lounge, settling into their seats, George smiling automatically as Owen orientates himself to face George, pulling his legs up so his knees rest against George’s thighs and slinging an arm up onto the back to the seat. “Later?” Owen suggests, calling back to George’s deflection.

“It’s nothing,” George shakes his head.

“You looked like you were thinking - that’s never a good thing,” Owen teases.

George allows a smile to flicker on to his face. “I told Jonny and Matt - Toomua - that I’m bi, getting nervous about it now,” he confesses. “Backed myself into a bit of a corner talking about Folau, ended up telling them in the changing rooms, with half the squad. Don’t really know if anyone else was listening in.”

Surprise is the first emotion to flicker onto Owen’s face, but there’s less of it than George had expected. Owen grimaces at his last words. “But they were good?” he checks.

“Great,” George nods. “They said they wouldn’t tell anyone, but - it’ll be their wives, I think. Then it could just keep going - or they could be telling the whole squad right now, I don’t know.”

Owen shakes his head. “They wouldn’t, you know that,” he assures George. “I don’t know Toomua, but he seems decent - you trusted him enough to tell him, that shows that. And from what Joe said you were scary when it was me, they won’t fuck with you,” Owen’s tone is light, teasing, and George rewards him with the smile he’s clearly trying for. That is true, he supposes.

“I just - don’t know,” George shrugs, sighs gustily. “It all seems to be going so fast, telling your family, my family, Sarries finding out - though that’s not really about me, I know,” he says hastily - but can’t stop his rant, now he’s got going. “Now it’s Tigers, when I didn’t really mean to. And I don’t know where this one stops - it was such a stupid thing to say, a stupid place to do it - I hate that I don’t know who heard,” George exclaims, finally, relieved for getting out what has been a build up of stress.

“You can’t,” Owen says, gently, putting a hand on George’s knee. “There’s no point stressing, because you can’t know, not now. Not helpful, I know,” he concedes.

“Not really,” George pulls a face. “Try harder,” he mock-commands.

“How about this - you’ve got two more people at your back, now. Two more guys who know they’ve got a queer teammate and can step up if people are shitty, take the focus and pressure off of you.”

“You think Jonny can do that subtly?” George asks, skeptical. 

“Ah, they’ll just think he’s - getting defensive because of me, looking to you for approval, I don’t know,” Owen waves a dismissive hand. “They won’t make that leap unprompted, you know they won’t - look at Hask,” Owen points out.

“You’re right,” George accepts. 

Owen is right; George isn’t sure why he’d been difficult in accepting it. He’s felt better at every stage of Owen’s reassurances, the tough love ‘you can’t’ included, and he hasn’t shown it. “You’re right,” George repeats. “Thank you.” 

George leans in, kisses Owen thoroughly to try to make up for his lapse in behaviour.

“What I’m here for,” Owen shrugs, when George draws away.

George can’t help the smile that pulls onto his lips, has to lean in to kiss Owen again. There’s feeling behind this one, and when they part this time Owen’s hand has climbed from George’s knee to halfway up his thigh, and George’s hand is resting on a warm slip of skin exposed at Owen’s hip.

“D'you think this’d be obvious enough for Hask?” Owen jokes, squeezing George’s thigh.

“Just this?” George asks. “I’m not sure - how about this?” George slips his hand fully under Owen’s shirt, starts tracing little shapes at the edge of his hip bone.

“Nah - he’d need this too,” Owen grins, leaning in for another, shorter, kiss. “How’d you end up having to tell them, anyway?” he asks on pulling back.

“I told them we'd show Folau that God’s plan for ‘us’ included thrashing him,” George tells him. “I’ve definitely gotten away with stuff like that before, but I guess Matt’s a good listener,” he shrugs. “Don’t expect that, in this sport,” George grins.

“That is weird,” Owen agrees, amused. “And - you could’ve still talked your way out of it,” he says, half a question, looking for the rest of the story.

“Yeah,” George agrees. “Matty actually asked if I was gay; I told him no. But -” he shakes his head. “It felt too much like lying to them. I’ve managed to avoid making it an issue, before. I’ve never had to actually lie, and I guess I’d be no good at it.” George quirks a rueful grin and Owen smiles back, before turning thoughtful. 

“I really hope we do thrash Folau,” he muses. “The only thing that could beat on pummelling him into the ground is if he actually knew - but maybe he will, by then.”

George cocks his head, removes his hand from under Owen’s shirt and looks at him seriously. “You keep saying things like that,” he points out. “Do you want to come out - to everyone?

Owen heaves a sigh. “I mean, it’s gone through the Premiership so fast - how long until it reaches the media? I’d rather get ahead of that.”

“You shouldn’t do it for that,” George shakes his head. He’d thought Owen wanted to, but if he feels he has to for some reason then George can stamp on that, hard. “Even if it does, through what, ex players, coaches? They won’t name you. You don’t need to do it for that.”

“They might,” Owen says, cautious. “I’d rather just get it done before rumours get out there, with names or not - that’d just make a bigger story when it does happen.”

“You don’t have to do it at all,” George insists, hearing himself getting heated. “No one will name you in the press, so fuck it, you don’t have to deal with rumours.”

“Yeah, but it’s also,” Owen pauses, gathering his thoughts. “If Sarries know, and England know, and pretty much everyone else in the Premiership - what difference does it make, really? Everyone I see day to day knows already..”

George just frowns at him. “If you come out in the press, how much difference will it make?” he asks, checking he's understood the question Owen seems to be asking.

“Not, like, a ‘coming out’,” Owen removes his hand from George’s knee to make sarcastic air quotes around the phrase. “Not a statement, nothing like that - if I mentioned it in like a post match interview.”

“It’d explode,” George says blankly, leaning back. “No matter how you do it, it’d explode. You’d be a massive news story, focus of all the sports news and a good half of the rest of it. There’s no way it wouldn’t be different.”

“I know, I do get that,” Owen says impatiently. “But for what - a day? A week for sports stuff? Then sure, I guess, it’d come up in interviews sometimes. But I wouldn’t even be the first, in rugby. They can’t keep a story going that long.”

“ _Everyone_ would want an interview, for more than a week” George cautions, unsure why Owen now seems to be trying to sell the idea when he’d started off suggesting he had no choice. “It’d be-” George shakes his head, unable to verbalise the mental image he has of everyone _looking_ , everyone prying and having their say on something that just isn’t their business. 

“You’re so hung up on the damn press,” Owen scoffs, impatient. “I don’t have to give them an interview, I don’t have to give them shit. I get that you hate them but this is nothing to do with you. I don’t _want_ the last bits of stress, the last set of people I have to tiptoe around. I want to be out, completely - stop talking about the press, what do you think of _that_?”

“I think you should’ve lead with it, is what I think,” George replies sharply. “Not ‘shit they’re going to find out guess I have to’! Wanting to, that’s totally different.”

“Sorry,” Owen says, sheepish, visibly deflating. “I thought you’d already got that bit.”

“I shouldn’t have snapped,” George offers his own apology. “I had, really - just got confused. If you want to come out I’ll support you, you know that.”

“That’s great, but I was looking for your thoughts, maybe even advice?” There’s still an edge to Owen’s tone - George takes a breath, doesn’t let himself snap back at it, thinks instead.

“Maybe - talk to Gareth Thomas?” George offers, after a moment. “I think you’re basically right, what you said - day to day it shouldn’t be too different after a bit.” George can’t imagine that, but when he actually considers what Owen has said he can see that it’s true, for him. Everyone around him already knows. The only thing that would change is media, and they really don’t have to deal with them that often. “But at first, and with the teams, like management...,” he shrugs. “Could be a nightmare, could be fine. I know it was ages ago, but he’s been through it. It’s like you said to me - you don’t have to do this blind.”

“But you don’t think I’m an idiot?” Owen checks.

“No, I don’t think you’re an idiot,” George says softly. “But I also -” he pauses, glad when Owen puts a hand on his knee. He covers Owen’s hand with his own, uses it to bolster himself to speak “-I’m just worried,” George closes his eyes, feeling like a fool for being more nervous about this than Owen seems to be, the one of them who will actually be going through with it. “People will be shitty, you know they will. I don’t want to see you going through that.” And yeah, he’s probably projecting a bit, imagining himself in the situation and how much he’d hate it, but he can’t help it.

“They can say what they want - I’ve got you, my family, my team. What do they matter? It’ll be fine,” Owen reassures him.

“I think that should be my line,” George says ruefully. He opens his eyes to Owen’s concerned face, smiles at him weakly. “And it will be,” he goes on, more positive. “The fans, media - there’ll be a bunch of assholes for a bit, a couple of assholes who stick around. Then there’ll be so many people who flat out don’t care - and people you’ll make happy, too. I remember when Gareth Thomas came out. That’s - it’s amazing, Owen” He remembers the weight he hadn’t known was there lifting off his shoulders, relief at the knowledge that someone like him had already made it in rugby, that it wasn’t a barrier. And that was even with the struggles Gareth Thomas had admitted to, qualifiers Owen won’t be adding.

Owen shrugs. “It is part of why I want to do it,” he admits, gruffly. “I could get by like this, I reckon - you’re right, the press probably wouldn’t get my name, I don’t _have_ to do anything. But they might, and I can, I want to - so why not?” he shrugs again. 

“‘Why not?’” George echoes, shaking his head. 

George can’t imagine being so cavalier about the response. He gets the idea of the people around you mattering the most, he doesn’t get not caring about everyone else. People talking about you, judging on what little they know - he hates it. George better at press than Owen, who hates having to interact with them, never knows what to say, but it comes at the cost of caring about their response. But he can see now that, for Owen, those positives - not having to worry, knowing he’s doing something for the community - far outweigh the negatives of more press attention and a few assholes online. 

Owen doesn’t talk often about things like this, wanting to help - he’s been allied with Joining Jack for years, and it matters to him, George knows it does, but while he’s consistent in his support of them he’ll rarely talk about his decision to do so. Owen likes to help, but he doesn’t particularly like to acknowledge the influence he can use to do so, George thinks. This might blow that out of the water.

“You know you’ll really be the hot England star when you do this,” George teases, realising it to be true. “A proper celebrity, proper icon.”

“Ugh,” Owen groans, long and heartfelt. “Not if I can help it.”

George just laughs.

“And you don’t - mind?” Owen checks.

George is shaking his head before Owen has even got the words fully out. “I’m worried,” he repeats. “But I definitely don’t mind. Same as you telling Sarries - I wouldn’t ask you not to, and I don’t want to.”

Owen lets out a sigh. “I’ll try to get in contact with Gareth Thomas then - that was a good idea,” he praises. “I’ll talk to Sarries and probably England’s press people, too, give them a heads up.”

“Going to do it soon, then?” George asks, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice and cutting down on the instinctive rise of nerves - _nothing to do with him_ , he reminds himself harshly.

“Not planning it - but I guess it could happen whenever I get a chance, I’m learning from coming out to England,” Owen says wryly.

“Good thinking,” George chuckles. “If you need anyone, for an interview, to back you up, whatever - you know I’m here,” he offers.

“Thanks,” Owen replies. “That’s probably a bad idea though, for you. I won’t drag you into this at all, if I can help it. I’ll try not to say I’ve got a boyfriend, even.”

George knows that’s meant to be reassuring, so he nods acceptance. “You don’t have to deny it,” he says - figures that’s safe, not pressuring Owen either way.

Owen just shakes his head. “I’ll try not to let it come up,” he repeats. “Sorry, this is - not relaxing,” he says suddenly. “Not good match prep.”

George is a bit taken aback by the subject change from personal to rugby, even linked as the two are for them. “Coming here was never going to be good match prep,” he tries to joke, sees on Owen’s face that it’s fallen flat.

“Well, you didn’t have to come,” Owen returns, an even worse attempt at a joke.

“I know,” George says sharply. “Did you think I came here for that? I don’t-” he cuts himself off before he quite says he doesn’t care about that, because it’s not true. Owen would know that, wouldn’t listen. He cares about the match, about being well prepared for it, of course he does. But a few hours with Owen was never going to endanger that enough for George to even consider not coming. The idea that George would come here with his priority being match prep is laughable.

“It doesn’t matter that this isn’t as good match prep as staying at the hotel,” George tells Owen, deliberately. “I wanted to see you more than I wanted the perfect afternoon of prep,” George says, voice softening beyond what he’d intended as he watches Owen light up at his words. 

It’s the closest either of them have come to actually saying that they’re prioritising their relationship above, or at least equal with, rugby. That had been the foundation, after all, at least nominally. That they’d each understood each other’s careers, how much time they took up and how important it was. They’d promised each other ‘rugby first’, and the implication had been that they’d understand getting dismissed for that. 

Yet it hasn’t happened like that, not so far, not at all. Partially they’ve been lucky, with first Owen and then George having a week off, but George suddenly thinks that maybe they can make time for each other even without that. Given the distance George had travelled across London to see Owen today the journey between their homes doesn’t seem quite as far. Not ideal on a match week, no - but not impossible either. There’s no need for them to be separated by rugby the way they’d automatically accepted, not if they don’t want to be. The distance between their grounds is an issue, yes, but not insurmountable. They’re even luckier than most, sharing the long tours.

Owen opens his mouth to reply, closes it again. He squeezes George’s knee, leans in for a slow, thorough kiss. He brings the arm laying on the back of the sofa down around George’s shoulders, slides the hand resting on George’s knee up across to his far leg, then up to his hip. George tucks his own arm around Owen’s waist, brings his free hand up to cup Owen’s head as Owen flicks his tongue across George’s bottom lip. George is utterly engulfed by Owen, pressed tight between his body and the sofa. He arches up into Owen, presses them together more firmly, kisses him more deeply. 

There's emotion to this kiss, sentiments George had tried to get across in words coming through true and strong without needing them. If George didn't know better he might say it was love, this deliberate care, this focused affection. He's not so sure he does know better.


	11. Chapter 11

It’s been nearly two weeks since George and Owen have seen each other by the time they manage to arrange to video call. It’s more what George had expected their mid-Premiership relationship to be like - constantly busy, always missing each other. The week after had been busy in training for both of them, and while they both have a week off matches now George had been kept up in Leicester for the first half of it by various club commitments, and by the time he was free Owen and Saracens had flown off to Valencia. They’ve texted, but it’s not quite the same.

“Hi,” George greets, smiling, when the video connects.

“Hiya,” Owen smiles back. “Good to see you, Georgie.”

“You too,” George agrees. “How’s Valencia treating you?”

“Good,” Owen nods. “Nice and warm - though not quite as much as some of the lads had hoped,” he grins. “Went out for a round of golf this afternoon and a few of ‘em might’ve been dressed a bit optimistically, spent half the time pretending they weren’t cold and hiding their goosebumps.”

George laughs - he can easily imagine that. “Ah, big tough rugby players, I’m sure they were fine.”

“Yeah, that’s what they said,” Owen tells him, skepticism clear in his voice.

George chuckles again at that, laughter fading into a slightly-too-wide smile as he drinks in the sight of Owen on his phone screen. Even reduced to about 30 pixels by hotel wifi Owen is gorgeous when he smiles, especially the fond half-smile he’s employing now. 

“How’s your week off been?” Owen asks. 

“Been kinda busy, really,” George says. “Time off training just means other commitments scheduled in, you know how it is.”

Owen nods agreement.

“Not ideal after Saints too - like after Scotland, it just turns into time to dwell,” George admits. “Trying not to do that so much.”

Owen frowns. “You’ll turn it around,” he encourages.

“Would’ve been nice not to have to for once,” George says wryly - then cocks his head curiously as he hears a noise from Owen’s side of the call.

“Alright?” he asks, as Owen looks up and away from his phone.

“Oh, sorry,” comes an apologetic voice - Lozowski, George thinks.

“S’okay,” Owen dismisses, looking away from Lozo back to George. “I’ll talk to you later G- babe,” Owen switches midword, making the late decision not to name George. And if Owen had looked regretful at the interruption it’s nothing compared to his reaction to his near slip.

“Oooh, is that the boyfriend?” Alex asks eagerly. “Introduce us, come on,” he says, voice getting louder.

“No,” Owen barks, eyes widening as he looks up, and-

-George is left blinking at a dark screen that reads ‘Owen Farrell has ended the call’, no real clue what’s happening on the other end of it.

He sighs heavily, dropping his head to his hands, forehead pressed against his phone. Yeah, this is more what he’d imagined - feared - their relationship could be like.

George sits there long moments, trying to convince himself to move to bed, before his phone vibrates against his forehead - it’s Owen.

Owen Farrell (20:30)  
\- sorry :(  
\- Lozo came climbing over to try to see you, had to hang up - all fine though  
\- flying back tomorrow but we should call day after that? safer at home

George blows out a long breath, imagining if Lozo had seen him. He hadn’t even realised what was happening, not really, would have been totally vulnerable. But it didn’t happen, he reminds himself, taking another deep breath. It’s just a learning experience, that way. 

Owen Farrell (20:33)  
\- miss you

George’s lips quirk up into a smile, as his forehead creases into a frown. It’s bittersweet, to read that. Sweet, because it means he’s not alone in the feeling, because he knows this means something to Owen. Bitter, because he’s sad Owen is feeling bad too, because there’s no clear end in sight. He shakes his head to dismiss the thoughts, sends his replies.

not your fault, thanks for update -  
going to Joe’s for dinner day after tmrw :( we’ll work something out -  
miss you too -

~~~

**Leicester 23 - 25 Newcastle**

It’s quiet in the changing rooms post match. Tom has already given a speech, tried to cheer the team up, motivate them for next week. George isn’t sure how well it’s worked; it hasn’t much motivated him. 

Two matches, two losses. 

Two close matches, two matches they should have won - and they’re out of the finals. They’d deserved a draw, at least, George thinks pettily. Falcons’ third choice kicker, last minute conversion, and he couldn’t just have given them a draw? George would growl in annoyance if he wasn’t surrounded by people.

George’s phone starts buzzing in his bag at his feet. He ignores it, at first. Just stares blankly at his bag, the way his phone is moving around slightly within it. Then he registers the name on the display - ‘Owen Farrell’. George moves, lightning quick, picks up the phone and answers instantly as much to stop anyone see who’s calling him as out of actual desire to do so.

It takes him a moment to remember that he’s meant to speak, now. “Hi,” he manages.

“Hey, Georgie,” Owen replies, voice soft.

George closes his eyes, gripping the phone tighter. He hadn’t expected just hearing Owen’s sympathetic voice to feel like he’s being cracked open, all the emotions in him threatening to spill out.

“You should’ve won that,” Owen goes on, a touch of frustration filtering through.

“Yeah, I know,” George half snaps. He was on the pitch, he felt it too, better than Owen. They let it slip through their fingers, he damn well knows.

“Sorry,” Owen says instantly. “I just - you deserved it. Wanted to play you in the final,” and now it’s longing seeping through, and rueful amusement.

“Me too,” George sighs, anger draining out of him as quickly as it had come.

“Next year,” Owen suggests.

“It’s a date,” George agrees, smile tugging at his lips.

George opens his eyes, looks up and around the changing room for about the first time since the match ended. He’s far from the only one curled into his phone, and there are more players with family there, huddled together. George had taken the quiet for despair, before, but now he’s not so sure that’s all it is. There’s comfort there, too, reading between the lines.

“Or maybe we’ll see you in Champions Cup before that,” Owen offers, pulling George back to his phone.

“Maybe,” George agrees, actually thinking forward to next week for the first time. Sale. That could be the match they need to stay in - another virtual play off match, and this time he won’t let the same thing happen, none of them will. “We’ll be there, at least,” he says with purpose.

“I know you will,” Owen agrees, and it doesn’t sound placating. It sounds like he has as much faith in Leicester as George does, and George smiles to hear it.

“I miss you,” George says spontaneously, not bothering to lower his voice any further to do so. Ben’s stall is empty next to him, and Jonny is having his own quiet talk on George’s other side, he’s not listening. Besides which George has already declared the next final a date, and suspects his body language would make it clear he’s talking to a significant other even if his words hadn’t. There’s no use in pointless precautions.

“Me too,” Owen sighs. “Come down,” he invites suddenly. “I’m not playing until Sunday - come down now, I’ll see you tonight.”

“I’m not driving down now,” George scoffs. It’s already after 10pm, and traffic around the stadium is naturally terrible. “Wouldn’t even get there until tomorrow.”

“That’s fine,” Owen dismisses.

“It’s not,” George replies. “I’m not messing with your - weekend - by arriving in the middle of the night,” he catches himself before he quite says match. The guys figuring he’s probably dating someone, fine. Anything more, not really. “I’m meant to be having lunch at Joe’s tomorrow anyway,” he adds reluctantly.

“I’ll leave a key outside,” Owen suggests. “You can let yourself in, you know I won’t wake up.”

“Where will you hide a key?” George asks skeptically. He wants to see Owen, really he does. They still haven’t managed a decent length video call, and there’s no obvious next time they’ll be able to meet. It just doesn’t seem practical.

“I’ve got a key safe,” Owen says smugly. “Just down the side, code’s my birthday.”

“That’s secure,” George says wryly. Owen lets the silence sit, and George feels the balance of his decision tip. “I’m meant to be having lunch at Joe’s,” he repeats, looking up and around to see if he can find him. Joe hadn’t been playing, but he had been there, and George wouldn’t expect him to leave without sharing commiserations. “And I don’t want to mess with your match prep, seriously,” he adds absently. He’d be more worried about it if Owen seemed to be, but, well - it is London Irish, and Saracens are through regardless.

“Hey - if you don’t want to come down, if you’re too tired, anything like that... That’s okay, yeah?” Owen says cautiously. George is distracted by having spotted Joe talking to the Youngs family, gesturing him over. It takes him a moment to register Owen’s words

“What? No,” George says hurriedly. “No, I want to,” he assures Owen. “I’m talking to Joe right now, hang on,” he asks, taking the phone away from his ear. How had he managed to give Owen that impression? 

“Alright?” Joe asks.

George just grimaces. “Been better, been worse,” he replies. “Look, about lunch - would Sunday work for you?”

“Oh, is that-?” Joe stops himself before he quite says Owen’s name. “You going to see him? Hasn’t he got-?” he has to cut himself off again.

“Sunday,” George provides. “So if we could switch days, maybe? It’s been a while, is all,” he grimaces apologetically.

“Yeah, of course,” Joe agrees readily. “Makes no difference to us. Get your head in the right place, you’ll be better company,” he grins teasingly. 

“See you Sunday then?” George confirms, raising his phone to his ear again.

“See you Sunday,” Joe confirms. “Have fun,” he encourages, raising his eyebrows as he starts to walk away.

George pulls a face, waving him off.

“Hey,” he says down the phone.

“Alright?” Owen responds.

“Yeah - I’ll see Joe on Sunday, so if that invitation still stands...?”

“Of course,” Owen says softly. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“You’ll see me tomorrow morning,” George points out. “And if you’re awake when I get in I’ll turn right around, don’t think I won’t,” he warns.

“You wouldn’t,” Owen scoffs.

“I wouldn’t,” George agrees. “But you better not stay up.”

“Alright mum,” Owen teases. “I’ll put the key in the safe and turn in now, okay?”

“Okay,” George agrees. “Code’s your birthday, yeah?” he checks.

“Yeah,” Owen confirms. “On the right side of the house, 4 digits - if you remember them.”

“I remember,” George rolls his eyes. “I'll see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight,” Owen bids.

“‘Night,” George echoes. He hangs up, feeling himself start to smile.

He's still tired, he's still frustrated - this is a bad loss, with consequences they’ll no doubt be hearing about from media and coaches all week, and longer still. But he’s seeing Owen. Things could be worse.

~~~

George wakes slowly, to warmth on his shoulder.

“Hey, George,” George hears when his ears start processing.

He grunts acknowledgement, turning in to the warmth he can now identify as a hand and blinking hazily.

“I’m gonna head off for Captain’s Run in a bit,” Owen says quietly. “Just wanted to let you know, okay?”

George nods. Owen takes his hand off George’s shoulder, George just managing to catch it.

“Hey,” he says, pulling Owen’s hand to himself to quickly kiss the back of it. “Have a good one, yeah?” he encourages. “And - thanks.”

“What for?” Owen asks, sounding confused.

“Inviting me,” George replies, as if it’s obvious - because it is, to him. “Especially in the middle of the night - not ideal for you.”

“I wanted to see you,” Owen frowns, “so it pretty much is.”

“But - not really,” George sighs, scrubs a hand across his face. He’s not awake enough for this. 

“Really,” Owen argues. “You’d’ve invited me up if it was the other way round - wouldn’t you?” he asks.

“Of course,” George answers, no thought required. 

“Exactly,” Owen says, like it’s an answer.

George supposes it is, at that. He smiles up at Owen. “Well then - I’m glad,” he amends. 

Owen is still frowning slightly, shakes his head to visibly dismiss it. “I’ll see you later,” he bids, leaning down to kiss George goodbye properly.

George hums in contentment when Owen pulls away, burrows deeper into Owen’s pillows. “Later,” he agrees. He’s looking forward to it.

~~~

Two days into post-season training and George is no closer to understanding why Leicester have insisted on it. Or - he does understand, really. It keeps the team in the mindset of playing longer, like they would have if they’d made it through to the finals, and it’s an opportunity for the coaches to push them hard without worrying about tiring them out. But for all the lads are frustrated with how the season has ended, they’re also ready to put it behind them. Even the internationals aren’t taking drills as seriously as they could, and they’ve no excuse of upcoming holiday to lay that on. With the rollercoaster of the last few matches everyone is just mentally done, and George can understand that - he wants to get into camp with England, start looking forward to that, not backwards to a season closed.

These thoughts aren’t things George shares at the end of the day, despite the fact that he’s stood with his captain and head coach. Instead they’re catching up on the recent weeks and summer plans, bonding George has to admit probably is important for the team - prioritising it seems to work pretty well for Sarries after all.

“It was great to stay up with my family after the Sale match,” George is telling Tom and Matt, as the conversation turns to him. “It’d been a while since I saw them all, since I went up Manchester way, so it was a nice break.”

“Huh,” Tom says thoughtfully. “I thought you went up the weekend after Falcons?”

“No?” George replies, confused. He hasn’t mentioned the weekend after Newcastle to anyone, in any capacity. He’d replied ‘good’ to the standard enquiries and that was about it. He hadn’t brought up that he’d been anywhere other than at home. 

“Ben!” Tom calls - Ben comes jogging over from his conversation with Ellis. “You been lying to me?” Tom demands, just a hint of a grin flickering at the corner of his mouth.

“Probably,” Ben admits readily, to snorts of amusement from both George and Matt - Tom just tries to frown harder, fails. “What about?” he asks.

“I’m sure it was you who told me Fordy’d gone up to his family after Falcons - now I look like an idiot asking him about it,” Tom accuses.

“Huh,” Ben frowns at George. “I thought you had.”

“No idea where anyone’s been getting this from,” George replies, holding up his hands as a sign of innocence.

“I came by on Saturday and your car was gone,” Ben explains. “Came by Sunday morning too, still gone - I figured you’d gone up north.”

“Oh - no,” George denies. 

“Well whatever it was it set you up for a great week,” Matt O’Connor smiles. “Definitely do that more often.”

“You were in a surprisingly good mood on Monday,” Ben muses. “What’d you get up to?” he asks.

George glances around - it’s quiet on the pitch. He’s standing with his closest friend, his captain, and his head coach. They’re asking about his weekend with his boyfriend, the boyfriend none of them know about. The boyfriend George has, recently, been thinking about telling them about. It’s undeniably an opportunity. George is still a little overwhelmed by how fast things seem to be turning, how many people he now seems to be entrusting with his secrets - but he’s not sure he can let a chance like this slide.

He’s got the two key members of the team asking, Ben there as support if he needs him, no one else around. It’s the best opportunity he’s likely to see unless he wants to arrange a meeting with the three of them - which he doesn’t. And he does want to tell them, is the crux of it. With Owen due to come out publicly, with Jonny and Matty knowing - George wants his captain and head coach to know. 

“Spent a couple of nights at my boyfriend’s place,” George tells them, as nonchalantly as he can. “So yeah, hopefully will be keeping that up next season,” he smiles at Matt - who’s blinking in shock, but manages to smile back.

“What?” Ben exclaims. “Since when have you had a boyfriend? Why do you never tell me these things?” he demands. 

“You’ve been off injured,” George points out. “What do you want me to do, text you with updates every date I ever go on?” 

His and Owen’s relationship hadn’t quite started like that, of course, or even within the timeframe of Ben’s injury - but Ben doesn’t know that.

“Yes,” Ben grumbles. “From now on, yes, every new person I want updates - then I won’t be out of the loop.”

George rolls his eyes. “You guys are the first people I’ve told outside of my family, so you’re not too far behind,” he tells Ben. “Might be a bit of a wait for a new person, anyway,” he murmurs.

“George,” Tom says quietly, calling George’s attention - no one ever calls him George on a pitch, not even Joe. “I hope you know I’ve got your back, in the team. I’d’ve cut the chat about Farrell off earlier, if I’d known.”

George nods, accepting this. Tom is serious about his captaincy, and while this doesn’t change the fact that he personally saw nothing wrong with what Nick was saying George can accept that he’ll likely be different now he knows. How awkwardly that may manifest is yet to be seen, but George is going to be optimistic. “Wouldn’t have told you if I didn’t,” George replies, giving Tom a friendly smile.

Tom’s face splits into a relieved grin. 

“Wait wait wait,” Ben cuts in before Tom can speak. “What’s this - do the guys know about Faz?”

“You’ve got to stop being off injured, you’re missing all the fun,” George teases. “Yeah, they asked me if he was gay second day back after the Six Nations, Jonny confirmed it - didn’t take long,” he says wryly.

“Shit,” Ben says, looking surprised and a little dismayed. “Does Owen know?”

“I told him,” George nods. “He expected this, it’s not a surprise,” he assures Ben. “It was never going to stay quiet when England knew.” 

George holds back from telling them just how not quiet it’s going to be.

“Guess this explains your spirited defence,” Matt puts in - his first words since George has come out.

“You heard about that?” George asks, surprised - refraining from pointing out either that you don’t have to be queer to care, or just how accurate that assessment is.

“You’d be amazed at the amount of gossip Tom keeps me up to date with,” Matt says genially. “In this case, yeah, it was relevant - especially as you brought us into it.”

“Hell of a bluff,” George acknowledges warily, not sure that was a particularly positive comment.

Matt blinks. “You were right to,” he assures George. “We won’t tolerate homophobia in the squad, not against another player and certainly not against one of our own.”

“Thank you,” George replies, glad for the clarification of position - or intended position at least. “This doesn’t go beyond us though, yeah?” he asks, glancing around each guy individually. “I’m not planning on telling everyone, at the moment. Just thought I’d let you know - and I knew Ben would kill me if I didn’t say,” George lightens his tone again.

“Of course,” Matt nods, Tom following his lead.

“Dude, I’ve not told anyone you’re bi for years - I’ve got this,” Ben rolls his eyes.

“You just told two people,” George points out wryly.

“No, _you_ just told two people,” Ben protests.

George just raises an eyebrow at that, shaking his head. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he bids, turning to head back to the dressing room.

Second time he’s been directly questioned, second time he’s come out rather than lie. George isn’t sure he’s going to be any good at being closeted with a boyfriend - he'd found it stressful the last time, for as long as it had lasted, hadn't found it worth it. He's not sure the boyfriend will be the thing to go, this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter and that no one's feeling too bad about the South Africa loss! Unfortunately this is going to be the last upload of hyf for 4 or 5 weeks, as I'm off on holiday/to Wimbledon. I am aiming to get other things up while I'm away, but I don't want to promise too much - I've still got just about every aspect of planning and packing left to sort out so there might not be much time left for writing before I go. Either way I will make a promise to see you by or more probably on July 15th with another chapter!


	12. Chapter 12

George has been home from training for about an hour by the time his phone buzzes with a video call. He’d texted Owen when he left the training ground, letting him know he was free and would like to call tonight. They don’t always arrange to speak, sometimes only end up texting, but one way or another they’ve been in contact pretty much every day for weeks now.

“Hi,” George smiles, centering himself in the shot.

“Alright?” Owen greets, returning the smile. “Got some news?”

“Yeah,” George agrees, wary. How does Owen know already? Who had told him, and why? It must be Ben.

“Does that mean mine’s been spoiled for you too?” Owen goes on, still grinning.

“I - no,” George frowns. He’s not at all sure they’re on the same page here.

“Eddie didn’t tell you?” Owen sounds surprised.

“Owen, love, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I haven’t spoken to Eddie,” George tells him. 

“Oh,” Owen visibly deflates. “Oops,” he says, sheepish. “Probably ruined things.”

“Still have no idea what you’re on about, so no,” George dismisses. “What’s your news?” he asks, intrigued.

“I’m gonna be captain for the South Africa tour,” Owen tells him, smile growing again.

George grins, finding himself entirely unsurprised. “Owen, that’s great!” he beams. “You’ll do great, congratulations!”

“It’s just while Dylan’s off, it’s not a big deal,” Owen dismisses.

George just arches an eyebrow at him. “Owen,” he scolds. “You’re England captain for a tour - that’s a massive deal. And you know it, or you wouldn’t be smiling so hard right now,” he points out.

Owen shrugs, switching the hand with which he’s holding his phone and settling back into his sofa more comfortably. “Not going to think about it too much until the season’s over,” he dismisses. “And I’m just glad to be going, too,” he says. “All that talk about resting, got a bit worried,” he admits with a small smile.

George rolls his eyes. “You’re indispensable,” he tells Owen, not quite as sarcastic as he’d meant to make it. “Maybe if you said you wanted a break, but otherwise,” George shakes his head. He knows no one’s indispensable in a national squad, not really - hence the sarcasm - but if anyone was... “Can’t imagine England without you.”

Owen’s smile softens. “You either, Georgie,” he says.

George pulls a face. “We’ll see.” He thinks England without him is a much more likely sight, especially these days. The low muttering about him in the media has built up to a roar, one he can’t make himself ignore. There’s no way Eddie can’t hear it.

“No, really, you’re-” Owen cuts himself off.

George tilts his head, curious. “Why did you think I’d talked to Eddie?” he asks.

Owen winces, exaggerated. “I definitely shouldn’t say?” he tries. “But you should hear from him today, I think,” he goes on.

“And it’s good news?” George checks. Owen had seemed excited, and George had thought that was for both of them, but he’d not been expecting good news the next time he spoke to Eddie.

“Promise,” Owen nods.

George accepts that as it is, deliberately doesn’t think about it - if Owen wasn’t meant to tell him that George should probably seem surprised.

“What was your news?” Owen asks.

“Oh yeah,” George remembers. “I told Ben, Tom, and Matt O’Connor that I’ve got a boyfriend,” he tells Owen.

“Did it go alright?” Owen asks.

“Yeah,” George confirms. “Ben was - Ben,” he pulls a face, and Owen laughs. “And Tom and Matt were great.”

“Good,” Owen smiles, but it’s distracted. “I - thought you weren’t coming out, though,” he says, more question than statement.

“Yeah,” George half shrugs. “I’m not.”

“You - kinda are,” Owen points out, the teasing smile on his face not quite masking the seriousness and confusion of his words.

George frowns. That’s not what it feels like, but he can definitely see Owen’s point. When Owen says ‘coming out’ George pictures public announcements, strangers gossiping, or at the very least a serious, direct conversation about sexuality. That, he doesn’t want. That makes him uncomfortable. Telling the Youngs brothers and Matt had probably been a little uncomfortable, yeah - but it hadn’t been that. It had been George talking about his life, not choosing to deny part of it. He supposes that is coming out, too.

George sighs, trying to come up with a way to express what’s muddled up in his own brain. “I’m not - It’s -” he frowns, frustrated. “It was worth getting them onside,” he says, first. “I don’t know who heard when I told Jonny and Matty,” he reminds Owen. “So it was worth getting them onside, my captain and my coach - and you know I’d never hear the end of it if Ben found out later.”

“That’s true,” Owen acknowledges. “But - you told Jonny and Toomua, too,” he points out, just a prompt.

“Yeah - this was a similar thing. They asked about the weekend after Falcons, and - I don’t _want_ to lie, to hide,” George sighs. “Not to my friends, maybe not even to any of the team. Coming out, telling the public, that’s -” he shakes his head. “No. Even England, knowing how it would spread, the gossip from people I don’t even know - it’s too much. But my mates on the team,” George has to stop again, order his thoughts. 

“It’s still not like it was for you, I still don’t _want_ to tell them my sexuality.” For Owen it had chafed to have it hidden, he knows, but George doesn’t consider his sexuality anyone else’s business. It probably helped that George could participate in the inevitable conversations about girls, didn’t have to lie in those situations - whereas Owen did. “But stuff about you, having a boyfriend, what I’m up to on the weekend - I don’t want to lie about that to my friends, hide things. If they reacted badly it’d suck, sure, but I don’t think it’d get much further than the team. It wouldn’t be like England knowing, or telling everyone. It’s not worth it to lie, so - I’m not. Does that make sense?”

Owen is nodding, slowly. “Sort of, now,” he says. “It has been kinda confusing,” he admits.

“Sorry,” George grimaces. “I’ve barely sorted it out myself. I don’t want to _tell_ people, I hate that idea of coming out, how awkward it is, but - I’m not hiding it if it comes up, not to my friends.” It’s the first time he’s spelt it out like that, even to himself, but it feels right. “We’ll see about the whole team,” George adds with a grimace. Where those lines fall he’s not sure, not yet.

“Yeah,” Owen’s nodding more confidently now. “I get that.”

George smiles at Owen, then blows out a breath. Maybe they can relax into less serious topics, now.

Clearly George shouldn’t have thought that, as at that moment his phone lights up with another call - Eddie Jones.

“Eddie’s calling,” George tells Owen. “I’ve gotta-”

“Of course,” Owen agrees.

“I’ll call you back,” George promises, hanging up and accepting Eddie’s call quickly. Good news, he reminds himself. “Hello?”

“Hello George,” Eddie greets. They exchange brief pleasantries, even that stretching George’s patience. 

“Dependent on the outcome of the Premiership semi finals I’d like you and Chris Robshaw to co-captain England against the Barbarians,” Eddie says, getting to the point.

“Oh - of course,” George says, automatic. “Thank you.”

“If Saracens players become available to us we will prioritise Owen Farrell, however. He will captain the South Africa tour,” Eddie goes on.

“That’s great,” George says, rather than ‘I know’.

“I want you to know that I have a great deal of faith in you, George,” Eddie says directly - George doesn’t think he knows another way. “You’re an exceptional fly half at your best.”

“Thank you, sir,” George accepts. There’s the edge of warning he’d been expecting - ‘at his best’. This is far more support than he’d expected Eddie to show, though, so he won’t complain. 

“I’ll leave you to your evening now,” Eddie wraps up. “See you next week.”

“See you next week,” George agrees. 

That was quick.

George has barely lowered the phone to his lap before he’s raising it in front of his face, video calling Owen again.

“Hey co-captain,” Owen smirks.

“Hey captain,” George grins back. “Fuck,” he says, the reality of it sinking in. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

“I thought I’d blown it,” Owen grimaces.

“I deliberately didn’t think about what you said,” George tells him. “I didn’t think -” he shakes his head. It hadn’t even been a possibility in his mind. Without Owen or Dylan available it probably should have been, but - no. It hadn’t crossed his mind for a second. The worry that he might get dropped had been closer to the surface.

“You’re gonna smash them,” Owen encourages.

“Already decided you’re not coming to join the fun then?” George asks, raising an eyebrow. “That’s confident.”

“Positive mental attitude,” Owen smiles, wide and a touch mocking. They’ve both heard that phrase more than enough times already this year.

“Fuck,” George mutters to himself again. Co-captain for the Barbarians - in Owen’s absence. It’s only the Barbarians, but ‘only the Barbarians’ means a lot of new, young players to help settle in to camp. The same as Argentina, George supposes - he just hopes the results can go the same way too.

“Sinking in?” Owen asks with a fond smile.

“Getting there,” George tells him.

“I’ll leave you to that,” Owen says. “I should call my family, tell them.”

“Of course,” George agrees. “Me too. Maybe,” he adds with a grimace. Maybe he’ll wait until it’s confirmed, until Owen’s won against Wasps and he can see that Eddie hasn’t changed his mind after a week of training.

“Talk you you later,” Owen bids.

“Soon,” George agrees. “And hey - congratulations again, captain.”

Owen’s breaks into a soft smile. “You too,” he says, before hanging up.

~~~

It’s not that George didn’t appreciate the invitation to watch the royal wedding at Joe and Connie’s - at the time, he’d been really looking forward to what will probably be their last full day together before he flies off to South Africa. But as half past, Owen’s kick off, starts to creep closer he finds himself getting more and more antsy. With around 5 minutes to go George’s knee starts bouncing, won’t stop. Luckily it seems to entertain baby Kobe, and eventually catches Joe’s attention too.

“Alright there G?” Joe asks, laughter clear in his voice.

“Fine,” George asserts. “Enjoying the wedding.” He can handle missing a few minutes of the match for the end of the ceremony - it can’t be long now, surely.

“Yeah?” Joe replies. “Con, you wouldn’t mind if we popped the rugby on now, would you?”

Connie sighs, long suffering and entirely put on. No one who doesn’t love rugby would survive in their family. “I suppose not,” she replies. “Though you did accept an invitation to watch the wedding, not the match,” she points out, teasing.

“I know,” George replies apologetically. “That was before we knew what time kick off was, though,” he defends. “And then - I thought maybe it’d be over in half an hour?”

“Because weddings so commonly are,” Connie replies skeptically.

“You have to admit this guy’s been going on,” Joe gestures to the preacher who does seem to have been on screen for an uncommonly long time. George wouldn’t know, he’s mostly been thinking about Saracens’ tactics for the last ten minutes.

“I love him,” Connie says, intensely serious.

“Well George loves his boyfriend, so it’s rugby time,” Joe says, changing the channel.

“Thanks,” George says gratefully, choosing to skim over the first half of that sentence.

“Predictions?” Connie asks, after a moment eyeing George before she too appears to choose to ignore Joe’s claim.

“Sarries’ve got this, no problem,” George says confidently, relaxing only slightly as the players run out. He’s not at risk of missing anything, now, but he’s not sure that’s actually better.

“Not worried about Cips’ magic then?” Joe says - a layered question if George has ever heard one.

“No, they’ve got this,” George dismisses, not even touching on the second interpretation.

Connie and Joe chat lightly about their own thoughts and predictions as George sinks into a kind of intense, focussed watching he rarely reaches.

“Yes!” George cheers, punching the air as Saracens score outrageously quickly.

“Good start,” Connie comments. “You might be right yet.”

“Your boy’s got a good boot on him,” Joe comments as Owen sends his first kick of the match sailing straight between the uprights.

“He’s not so bad,” George says playfully, exhilarated. He’s as excited for Sarries’ lead as he would be if he were watching Leicester - it’s a strange sensation.

“You seeing Owen before England camp?” Joe asks.

George nods, eyes still trained on every second of action on the TV. “Going to spend the night tomorrow, before Pennyhill,” he tells Joe. “Then - I guess we’ll see, depending on this match. He could be in camp with us,” he points out, not wanting to jinx anything.

“You rooting for that?” Joe asks.

“Well...” George muses, pretending to hedge. “No,” he says after a moment, shaking his head. “I couldn’t.” Much as he enjoys being with Owen, would always happily, greedily, take more time with him - he couldn’t cheer against him.

“I heard that indecision!” Joe laughs. “George Ford backing Danny Cipriani over boyfriend Owen Farrell - let’s just call up the papers for that headline, who d’you think would be interested?”

“Who wouldn’t?” George asks wryly.

“Joe,” Connie says deliberately. Judging by how quickly Joe shifts his attention to her from teasing George it’s a tone he knows, one that doesn’t bode well.

“Yes?” he acknowledges.

“Do you think you might have missed out some vital information in some of our recent conversations?” Connie asks.

“No?” Joe tries.

“No?” Connie sounds deliberately surprised. “So you don’t think it might have been important to tell me that George’s new boyfriend was, in fact, Owen Farrell?”

George - blinks, attention snapped from the rugby in a way he hadn’t thought possible. Joe didn’t say...? He starts to laugh, hard, as Joe frowns at Connie.

“I did!” Joe defends.

“You did not,” Connie assures him, arching an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure I would have remembered. I knew -” she talks over Joe’s protests “- I knew that George had a boyfriend called Owen. You came back and talked about meeting ‘George’s boyfriend, Owen’. You never mentioned his surname.”

“Sorry,” Joe apologises meekly, a smile starting to flicker on to his face. 

Connie rolls her eyes, grinning. “Honestly,” she sighs. “How was I supposed to work that one out?”

“Well it does make sense,” Joe protests. “They dated as kids.”

Connie laughs. “Oh, of course - and how was I supposed to know that?”

“Joe wasn’t supposed to know that,” George puts in. “And he shouldn’t have outed Owen by telling you, to be fair, not before everyone knew. Not after, either, but,” George shrugs.

“Oh, I didn’t hear about Owen from him,” Connie dismisses. “He didn’t tell me _you_ were bi, no danger there!” 

“I didn’t tell Joe I was bi either,” George shrugs.

Connie frowns for a moment, before turning to Kobe. “Your family are terrible at speaking,” she tells him, serious.

“Hey - can I get credit for not outing Owen in here? Is that on offer?” Joe tries.

“Hmm,” Connie barely pretends to consider it for a second. “No,” she declares. “You may make back some credit by making drinks,” she offers. “Tea, please.”

“Fine,” Joe grumbles, standing. He goes out of his way to Connie’s side, dropping a hand to her shoulder and a kiss on her head before heading to the kitchen.

“Honestly,” Connie tuts, shaking her head.

George just laughs, again. “I can’t believe he didn’t say.”

“Me neither!” Connie exclaims. “How long could that have gone on for?”

“Ah, we wouldn’t have got through South Africa without it coming out,” George says, quirking a smile back at Connie when she chuckles at the unintentional appropriate word choice.

“True,” she concedes. “Practically got England paying for your couple’s vacation,” she teases.

“Yeah,” George draws out the word, deliberately doubtful. Her words stick though - couple’s vacation, that’s not a bad idea... Goodness knows they’ve had a tough enough season to warrant it. He makes a mental note to think about it later.

“I was wondering why I hadn’t met him,” Connie goes on. “It made sense that he didn’t live around here, but I thought it couldn’t be too far.”

George pulls a considering face, eyes locked back on the rugby - glad Connie understands his rudeness, now. “It’s not, really,” he says. “He’s just busy.”

“Dating a rugby player is hard,” Connie says, suddenly serious.

George looks at her, blinking in surprise. “We’re trying to make it as easy as we can,” he defends. That's what it was, after all, when he tried to refuse to go to Owen after Newcastle, what he hopes it was when Owen tried to keep his distance after George was benched. They're trying not to make things harder for each other.

“How’s that working out for you?” Connie asks astutely, nodding when George just grimaces. “You make things too easy and you end up missing out - that’s worse.”

“It’s worth it,” George says - almost surprising himself.

“Well, if you love him,” Connie shrugs, nodding as if that makes it obvious.

George looks back to the match without a word, feeling his ears turn red.

Connie laughs, leaning in to pick up Kobe. “Oh, Kobe,” she sighs. “Don’t listen to your Ford family when it comes to talking, alright? You come to me.”

~~~

“You’re just a bit pleased with that win then?” George asks, a few minutes in to his and Owen’s afterglow.

Owen had pounced on George about the instant he’d walked in the door, kissing him hard before George had even manage to get all five syllables of the word ‘congratulations’ out. George had scarcely been less keen to celebrate, never having been any good at resisting Owen when he’s happy and eager like that - never really having wanted or tried to be. They did at least make their way up to Owen’s bed, but George’s things are still sat in Owen’s hallway. George supposes he doesn’t exactly need them.

“Just a bit,” Owen agrees, grinning in a manner that barely suggests sheepishness.

George has to lean in and kiss him at that, resting a hand on Owen’s shoulder and rubbing his thumb over the warm skin there are he pulls away. They’re lying facing each other, still naked, George’s feet barely tangled in what little of the duvet is left on the bed.

“Can’t believe you’d rather play Exeter than the BaaBaas,” George teases.

“BaaBaas _are_ fun,” Owen muses regretfully. “But I’d rather get our trophy back.”

“ _Your_ ” trophy?” George feigns shock. “That’s a bit presumptuous, a bit possessive.”

“Yeah,” Owen shrugs, no regret in it. He squeezes where his hand is resting on George’s bare hip, leans in for another kiss. This one lingers for a long moment, finishes with a brush of tongue, with Owen’s hand creeping around George’s side just enough that his fingers are brushing George’s arse.

“Leaving me on my own,” George mourns playfully. 

Owen scoffs. “You’ll be fine,” he assures George sarcastically. “I’m sure Ben can look after you,” he suggests.

George pulls a face. “I’d rather he didn’t.”

“No?” Owen asks, clearly fishing.

“No,” George answers. “Don’t want anyone else looking after me, just you,” he says, giving Owen what he wants. It’s only the truth.

“Good,” Owen grins, that sharp edge back under the smug glow.

“Possessive,” George points out again, going easily as Owen rolls him onto his back. He places a hand on Owen’s hip, mirroring when Owen is tightening his own grip once again.

Owen doesn’t even bother with a denial before connecting their lips in a kiss that more than delivers on the depth that was hinted at earlier. George is just slowing things down, settling in for the long haul, when a dull vibration from Owen’s floor filters through his consciousness.

Owen whines in his throat, pulling away and dropping his head to George’s chest.

“It’s yours,” George points out. His own phone is still downstairs, in his bag where he’d dropped it after using it for directions - something he barely needs, anymore.

Owen thuds his head against George’s chest in answer.

“Might be work,” George tries next, laughter coming through clear in his voice as he runs a hand over Owen’s head.

“Fine,” Owen grumbles.

For all his reluctance Owen rolls out of bed quick enough, moving swiftly to answer the call before it goes through to voicemail.

“Hello?” he greets - only a little short.

“Oh, hi,” he says next, much more friendly, slightly surprised. 

George props his head up on one hand to watch Owen’s expression, cocking his head curiously at the change in tone. Owen mouths something - presumably a name - but George shakes his head after a few increasing exaggerated repetitions. He has no idea what Owen is saying. Owen rolls his eyes, giving up, and comes to sit on the side of the bed besides George.

“Yeah, that sounds fine, perfect,” Owen agrees to whatever has been said, resting a hand on George’s calf.

“Thank you,” he says next, uncommonly sincere - and now George really is curious

Owen darts a glance at George during the next words, looking sheepish. “Er, a little bit,” he laughs.

“Okay, thanks,” Owen starts to wrap up, a relief for George’s building curiosity. “I’ll see you next Monday - thank you,” he signs off.

“Gareth Thomas,” Owen tells George, before George can ask, practically before he’s hung up.

“Oh,” George should have guessed. “All organised?”

“Yep,” Owen tells him, blowing out a long breath. He starts absently rubbing his thumb on George’s calf - George isn’t sure he even realises he’s doing it.

“Does he know what it’s about?” George asks - Owen hadn’t told him exactly what he’d said when he’d reached out.

Owen shakes his head, then tilts it side to side. “I haven’t said outright, but - probably,” he explains.

George nods understanding. “I wonder if he gets calls often,” he muses. He’d never even thought to reach out, but he’s also always known about Owen, never thought himself completely isolated in his situation.

“Maybe,” Owen replies. “He didn’t exactly sound surprised to have a random rugby player call him up and arrange a meeting - maybe it happens all the time.”

“Or maybe he already knows about you,” George points out.

“Maybe,” Owen accepts. “It hardly matters now,” he shrugs. 

“No,” George concedes.

“Now,” Owen grins, shifting himself back onto the bed and starting to lean over George. “He told me to get back to my celebrations, and I think it was you who suggested I should follow Gareth Thomas’ advice?”

“He’s a very smart man,” George agrees, grinning. “What did you have in mind?” he invites, dropping back onto the pillows.

Owen rests an elbow at George’s side, leaves his weight there and reclaiming his grip on George’s hip. He’s leaning over George, warm and close, and George takes a moment to appreciate his weight, arching up into his warmth and reaching up to wrap one arm around Owen’s shoulders, put one hand on his hip. Owen doesn’t hang around long, leaning in to close the remaining distance between them with a searing kiss. Before the phone call George had been trying to slow things down, steady them so they could make an afternoon of it. With the way Owen’s kissing him now all of those thoughts are rapidly flying out the window. George digs his fingers into his grip, holds on.

He’s left clutching at air as Owen pulls away as fast as he’d swept in. George blinks up at Owen stupidly as he moves to standing, trying to get his brain on board with the switch from the intensity of that kiss to the way Owen is now bending over to pick up their underwear. He gets a little stuck on ‘Owen bending over’.

“Food,” Owen says, flinging George’s pants at him and stepping into his own. “And then round two,” he adds cheekily, straightening up.

George groans, flopping back down on the bed as he realises Owen is answering his earlier question. He’d really rather they reversed that order. But the longer he thinks about it, the better the idea of food seems. Still not better than an afternoon in bed, but not a bad idea at all. 

“Fine,” George accepts, sighing heavily as he gets up to put his own clothes on. “My shirt’s downstairs,” he realises with a chuckle.

“That’s fine,” Owen grins. “I don’t mind.”

George rolls his eyes. “Your house isn’t that warm.”

Owen levels George with a look. “You weren’t complaining earlier,” he points out, but does move to his chest of drawers. He fishes out a shirt and throws it to George. “Wear that,” he suggests.

George opens it, opening his mouth to point out that he’s sure he can survive the walk downstairs, and - it’s a Saracens shirt. He closes his mouth.

“I’m not going to come warm the bench for your team,” George warns after a moment, looking back up at Owen and raising his eyebrows.

Owen rolls his eyes. “Just put it on,” he says casually, watching George in a way that belies his tone.

George shrugs and does so, looking down at the way the unfamiliar logos fall on his chest. It’s a training shirt, a bit big on him, and with Owen’s initials in the bottom left corner. George rubs the lettering between his fingers as he looks back up to Owen, finds him already moving in.

Owen sweeps George up in a kiss before George can even ask his opinion, a possessive, biting kiss, with his hand low on George’s back dragging him in. George ends up off balance, catching himself by clutching Owen’s biceps. He feels them tense at the hold, feels them tense once more as George starts giving back as good as he’s getting and Owen attempts to drag him closer, finds that impossible, ends up just holding him tighter. When they separate Owen rests a moment with his forehead on George’s, breathing hard, before slowly releasing him. 

“You like it then?” George grins, teasing, stepping back.

“Yeah,” Owen agrees, blatantly eyeing George up from head to toe. “It really - yeah. You?”

George looks down at himself again, the Saracens logo on his chest, Owen’s initials bold on his hip. He does. It’s odd, there’s no denying it. Something about wearing it feels wrong, but - “Yeah,” he admits, sliding Owen’s initials between his forefinger and thumb. “I like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I'd update on July 15th, and July 15th it is! Frankly I'm stunned to have achieved that, especially with Owen's actual wedding happening this weekend and massively distracting me. Hope you enjoyed the update!


	13. Chapter 13

George sighs, a long exhale, when he returns to the sanctuary of his room at Pennyhill. He forgets how intense training gets, in England camp. How he forgets, he’s not sure, but he does. The pressure of being co-captain feels fresh, too, the mix of guys in camp as awkward to negotiate as it was in Argentina. Everyone’s friendly, sure, but there’s a definite separation there. Cipriani’s presence doesn’t help. George is meant to be leading these lads, but they’re aware as he is that Cips is ready to replace him in a heartbeat if he falters, has been brought in to do so. George just has to not let that happen.

George sighs again, letting himself wallow for a moment, sinking down on the bed. He swears Cipriani is watching him, waiting for that mistake. Having the press in camp, their cameras following his and Cipriani’s every move, hadn’t helped that sensation. There’s little he’s looking forward to less than the press conference he’s going to have to give. But it’s all part of the job, and that’s more than enough wallowing for one day. George wouldn’t give up his co-captaincy without a fight no matter the media, no matter - or perhaps especially considering - how little he’d expected to be granted it.

George toes off his shoes, scoots himself further onto the bed until he’s propped up against the pillows. He pulls out his phone, ready to settle into some instagram scrolling to wind down, smiles when he sees a text from Owen. ‘You around?’ is all it says, and George is glad to see it timestamped just four minutes ago. He shoots off an affirmation, unsurprised when his phone starts to vibrate in his hand scant seconds later. 

“Hey,” George accepts the video call.

“Georgie,” Owen returns, smiling. “How was training?”

George grimaces, grunts. “You?” he asks, figuring that’s answer enough.

“Same,” Owen replies, amusement clear in his voice. “Spent a lot of time out on the pitch, thought we might never get to come back inside.”

“Ah, you love it,” George scoffs, knowing it to be true. George loves the on pitch stuff too, especially when it’s nicer outside like this, but Owen even likes gym sessions in a way George has never been able to fully understand.

“You’re just as bad,” Owen protests, something George accepts with a tilt of the head, rather than argue the subtle difference.

“You get it,” George shrugs, glad when it makes Owen smile. “Doesn’t make it any less tiring,” he says ruefully.

“Yeah,” Owen agrees with a sigh. “Worth it though,” he adds after a moment.

It’s George’s turn to sigh reluctant agreement now.

“You get it,” Owen echoes, flashing a wide grin. George ducks his head to hide a small smile of his own, looks up when he realises there’s no need to. Owen is just watching at him, grin having slipped, transformed to a pleased smile like George’s. This watching, George is okay with. If Cipriani could just look at him like that - George pulls a face. Maybe not.

“Okay?” Owen asks, appearing torn between laughter and concern.

George waves a dismissive hand. “Fine,” he claims. “Did your parents get everything sorted?” he asks, as a distraction. He’s not sure Owen would want to hear the fuller explanation he could give.

“Yeah,” Owen says, brightening. “They’re all coming over Friday.”

George smiles back at him, relieved Owen’s family have managed to find a way to make it for Owen’s final despite the issues they’d been having finding someone to look after their dog.

“We’re gonna have dinner,” Owen goes on, still smiling thinking about it. “You said you were coming up to London on Friday, I didn’t know if - no,” Owen reigns himself in, smile shrinking, turning rueful, as he shakes his head. “Never mind, it’s too far.”

George frowns. “You want to me come to dinner with them on Friday?” he checks, pretty sure he’d understood what Owen was suggesting, already turning over times in his head to see if it can work. It is a long way, both from Pennyhill to London then from London to Owen’s, really, but if the press conference finishes at noon... George isn’t sure how good his mental maths is, but he thinks it’s doable. “I can probably make it, for a couple of hours,” he offers.

Owen shakes his head.

“No?” George asks, surprised - he’d thought he’d understood.

“You’ve got your captaining, the press conference, the travel,” Owen explains. “I don’t want to make your day harder.”

George frowns. “Hey, if you don’t want me to come, that’s okay,” he assures Owen. “I get that they don’t like me, I don’t want to disrupt your pre-match meal.”

Now Owen is frowning, too. “It’s not that,” he insists. “I don’t care what they think of you -” his face twitches like he can read the lie in that as easy as George can, but he persists “- they’ll love you when they actually get to know you, I know it.” 

George can find no trace of a lie in that. “Then what?” he asks, because something had made Owen cut off the invitation, rescind it.

“Your captaining, the travel,” Owen repeats, brow furrowing slightly. “It’s a long way from the hotel to my house.”

“I know,” George tells him. “Seems like those are my problems to deal with, though. I don’t know if it’ll work,” he admits freely. “But it seems like getting there is my thing to work out, if you invite me.”

Owen shakes his head. “I don’t - didn’t - want you to come if it’s that awkward. Not to see my family. I wasn’t going to ask,” he says, sounding frustrated at himself. “It slipped out.”

George deliberately relaxes his jaw before he speaks. “If you don’t want me to come,” he says, shrugging, trying for accepting, trying for light. 

Owen wants time with his family, that’s cool, George gets that. He’d had that last weekend, before Owen’s match, after all. He could hardly object. A lot of players treasure that last evening before a match, spend their last bit of downtime as relaxed as possible with as many of their loved ones as they can manage. It’s fine if that’s Owen’s family for him, it really is. George just wishes he’d maybe not half-invited George if he was only going to backtrack in two seconds flat. He’d almost rather he wasn’t invited for the tension he feared, rather than it being the simple fact that Owen hadn’t meant to invite him anyway, that it had only slipped out out of - what, politeness? George couldn’t guess. They’ll have plenty of time to spend together in South Africa, anyway, George reminds himself. It really is fine.

Despite George’s attempt at lightness, Owen is only frowning harder. “I do want you there,” Owen insists. “I really - I really do, you and my family, I want that.”

George is starting to get whiplash. “So if you want me there, if you’re sure, and I want to be there - we’ll work it out,” he smiles encouragingly.

Owen shakes his head, frustrated again. “I don’t want to make things hard for you,” he insists. 

George listens, finally, has the flash of insight the act generally brings. He hadn’t believed Owen when he’d said that the first time, had brushed it off as an excuse because the thought of seeing Owen making his day harder was so unfathomable to him, but Owen really means it. They’re back where they’ve been for weeks, trying to make things easier for each other and ending up arguing about it, almost always ending up meeting anyway. George could insist, get to that point, but a full season of those arguments next year, of insisting to push his way into Owen’s life, trying to push Owen away from his, sounds exhausting. He’d rather put a stop to it.

“I - Connie said,” George sighs, trying to put his thoughts in order. “When Connie found out she said it’s hard, dating a rugby player -” Owen’s face screws up in regret, but George barrels on. “- and she said if you make things too much easier you end up missing out. I don’t want to miss out, Owen. I’d like to come, if you’ll have me. We’ve had this a couple of times, both ways - I don’t like arguing myself into seeing you, feeling like I’m arguing you out of seeing me,” George takes a deep breath, looking down from where Owen is watching him intently. He could have stopped after making Connie’s point, after saying he wanted to come, he thinks. But he wants Owen to really understand what he’s saying, what he means by it, make sure they really do put an end to this. “I - I pretty much always want to see you, it’s not going to makes things harder, or worse, and you’re not going to lose me to a couple of tough decisions or long drives. We’ll obviously have to miss enough being 70 miles apart, or however far it gets every weekend. That won’t get rid of me either. I don’t need this to be easy - I’d just rather not miss out when we don’t have to,” he summarises softly. And that’s all of George cards, officially on the table. George looks back up at his phone screen, at Owen, and tries to lighten it a bit - “We should probably listen to Connie, anyway, she’s the only one of us married to a rugby player,” George almost winces as the words come tumbling out. Maybe he had another card up his sleeve, but that’s certainly all of them spilt.

“Married, Georgie?” Owen teases, soft. “You’ve got big plans.” His voice is low, and George thinks that’s as much because he’s distracted, considering George’s words, as it is for the teasing. George doesn’t answer Owen, doesn’t have anything to say to rescue it. 

“You’re right,” Owen pronounces after a moment. “And it goes both ways, yeah?” he stresses, looking at George seriously. “If I invite you down, like after Falcons - don’t worry about what I’ve got on, what matches, anything like that. If I’ve asked I want to see you, if you can, no matter what else I’ve got going on.”

“Yeah, okay,” George agrees. That had been his point, after all, he can’t do anything but smile at Owen returning it.

It’ll be harder than this to actually do, George knows - he’s not stupid. They’ll still care about each other’s matches, try not to be an inconvenience to each other - and there’s nothing wrong with that, with being considerate. But hopefully they’ll catch it, now, when they’re just pushing each other away, be secure enough in each other not to do so, now they’ve spelt things out between them. Now that they’ve thrown out - with or without the actual words, the same way it was made - that stupid ‘rugby first’ agreement.

“So - d’you want to come for dinner on Friday night?” Owen offers, starting afresh. “My family are coming.”

It’s actually a more intimidating offer like that, but that doesn’t mean George doesn’t want. Still - “Nah, I’m alright actually,” he says, teasing. “They hate me and I’ll’ve had a busy enough day.”

“George,” Owen protests, but he’s laughing.

George laughs too. “I’d love to,” he accepts, voice warm. “I’ll check on timings and stuff tomorrow, if that’s alright, figure out when I can make it to yours, but - yes, I’d like to come.” 

He and Owen smile at each other for a moment. George wonders how long they spend just smiling at each other on video calls, where they might kiss if they could. He thinks it might be a long time.

“We’re not going smart, right?” George checks suddenly. “Don’t want to show up in jeans and give your parents another reason to hate me.”

“Definitely not,” Owen pulls a face at the very idea. “And it’ll be fine, babe,” he assures George, earnest. “They don’t hate you. My sisters’ve always liked you when they’ve met you, Gabe too - and he’s fussy at those England things. My parents’ll be fine when they give you a chance, I swear.”

“I hope so,” George sighs, trying not to think about how long Andy had known him in England camps without it changing his mind. Maybe they just - won’t like him. 

But maybe they will, and that’s the way George is going to think about it. It’s an opportunity, if he looks at it that way. An opportunity to convince Owen’s parents that he’s serious about Owen, that he cares about him, a chance to get rid of whatever image their teenage fumblings had created. George is going to make the most of that chance he possibly can.

~~~

“Hey, Georgie,” Owen greets, a fond smile springing to his lps. The sound of his families laughter floats towards them as he gestures George in the open doorway.

With the door safely closed Owen pulls George in for a brief greeting kiss, a hand on the small of his back. George melts into it, deepens it, dropping the tension of a day’s press - a day facing people he knows full well are salivating for his demise, or at least for the rise of his competitor - dropping it all in favor of Owen.

“Hey, babe,” Owen greets again when they part, his tone a touch concerned.

“Glad to be here,” George smiles, deflecting.

Owen looks at George for a moment but appears to decide to let it slide. “Glad you could make it,” Owen smiles, turning to lead them through to the kitchen where his family is gathered.

Andy is the first to stand to greet George, the one he knows best. “Alright George?” he says with a handshake - not crushing George’s hand, something George chooses to take as a good sign.

George returns greetings as warmly as he’s able, Colleen’s surprise hug a lot easier to do that with than the casual waves from Owen’s siblings. He finds the oven timer going off, food ready, by the time he’s done that.

“Just about on time,” George grimaces, checking his watch. He’d expected the traffic around London to be worse than normal because it was Friday, but hadn’t been prepared for just how bad it had been. 

“Perfect timing,” Owen corrects, wrapping an arm around George’s hips and squeezing briefly, kissing him on the temple, before moving to turn off the timer.

George looks after Owen for a moment, unexpectedly touched by the reassurance. It’s a perfectly normal expression of affection for them, but not one they’ve shared in front of other people before. Judging by Owen’s sisters’ raised eyebrows and Owen’s little brother pulling a face it’s not something they’ve seen from Owen before either. George shakes it off quickly, busying himself getting out plates. He’s aware of Andy watching him as he does so, studiously ignores that too as Owen refuses his mum’s help and tries to send his family to wait for their food in the rarely used dining room - the only space really big enough for all 7 of them.

“You’re a guest,” Owen says as Colleen tries to insist.

“And George isn’t?” Andy asks shrewdly.

Owen looks to George, stumped, like he hadn’t thought about it that way for even a moment, hadn’t noticed the way they’d been moving around each other getting things ready.

“I’m the hired help,” George smiles, when it becomes apparent Owen has nothing to say. “He’s actually paying me.”

“It’s the only way I can get him to stick around,” Owen joins in, grinning.

“It’s a tough job,” George sighs. “But I guess it’s worth it.”

“You guess,” Owen scoffs, pinching George on the hip as he moves past where George is getting wine glasses down.

George grins to himself, managing to shepard Owen’s family in front of him as he carries the wine glasses through to the dining room.

“Don’t want to know what the payment is,” Gracie mutters - just about quietly enough that George can follow Owen’s lead and pretend not to hear it.

George finds the table laid when he sets the glasses down, leaves Owen’s family to decide where they’re sitting as he goes back to get the wine he’d brought with him.

“Red?” he offers on his return to the dining room, finding the Farrells have sat to leave a gap at the head and foot of the table. He holds off on grimacing, disappointed he’ll be separated from Owen.

Four heads nod agreement and George starts to pour. “It might not be appropriate for the weather but I was told it would go with the meat,” George says, trying to fill the dead air as he starts to feel a little watched.

“We’re not fussy,” Colleen assures him.

George smiles at her in thanks as he finishes pouring the last glass and turns to Gabe. “Wine?” he offers, smiling when Gabe pulls an entirely predictable face for a seven year old.

“No?” he checks, only then thinking to glance at Colleen and Andy - who are, thankfully, amused by George offering their massively underaged son alcohol. “But you’re all grown up now - how was your birthday?” George asks, amused when Gabe starts to regale him with a story he knows Owen has already heard twice. 

“That sounds great,” he encourages as Gabe wraps the tale up, smiling back at Gabe’s wide grin. Young children are easy to please, and getting Gabe on side can only help.

“What can I get you to drink?” George offers, more sensible. “Owen bought juice,” he says, glancing at Andy and Colleen - do seven year olds make their own drinks choices? How should George know - the only child he regularly interacts with is less than six months old.

“Yes please,” Gabe replies, perfect manners. 

George smiles at him again before turning to the wider table. “Can I offer any of you anything else?” he asks, heads back into the kitchen with two orders of water and a firm determination to remember which sister he’s meant to be handing one to.

George sees his opportunity and swarms up behind Owen, surprising him with a ‘hi’ and a hand on his hip. Owen’s hand jerks and he spills vegetables everywhere.

“Those are yours,” Owen warns.

George just chuckles, pressing a kiss to the back of Owen’s neck and tightening that hand on his hip as he leans up over Owen to retrieve glasses.

“Alright?” Owen checks as George pours juice, water.

“Yeah,” George agrees. “Water for you?” he checks, close in Owen’s ear as he reaches above him for yet more glasses.

“Yeah,” Owen agrees, leaning back into the touch. He’s done dishing up, rests a hand on George’s and holds the two of them there for a moment.

“Can I help?” Colleen asks from behind them, for the third time. 

Owen startles slightly less at this, letting out a long suffering sigh as George steps away. “You can carry drinks,” he concedes, gesturing to the ones George has already poured. 

This time Colleen follows instructions. “And I’ll come back for plates,” she says, crossing the threshold out of the kitchen.

George laughs as Owen rolls his eyes. “Persistent,” he comments.

“Yeah, she’s _so_ helpful,” Owen says pointedly as the two of them enter the dining room carrying the first plates.

“You’re welcome,” Colleen says brightly, resting a hand on Owen’s shoulder and leaning up to kiss him on the cheek. 

Owen grumbles but holds his cheek out willingly. George chuckles to himself to see it - old as Owen may be he’ll never stop being his mother’s son.

“Anyone would think she thinks you can’t look after yourself,” Andy teases.

Owen pulls a face at him. “Not even doing it by myself anymore,” he grumbles as he turns back to the kitchen.

George pauses, moved again to hear Owen incorporating him into his life so easily, so fully, in front of parents he knows don’t approve. He wonders for a heartbeat if Owen is doing it on purpose, to make a point to them, then immediately dismisses it. There’s nothing knowing about this.

George shakes the moment off as quick as it had come and goes to carry the last of the things in with Owen and Colleen.

“You drinking?” Owen asks, in a tone of surprise, glancing at George and the wineglass set next to what Owen has correctly assumed is his own place at the head of the table. 

“No, that’s me,” Colleen tells him.

Owen doesn’t bother to mask a frown. “Separating us?” he asks.

“We’re sure you can manage,” Andy replies. “He’s seen you more recently than we have, anyway.”

“It’s been a week,” Owen grumbles, but hands George’s plate over for him to carry to his own seat.

“Dating a rugby player is hard,” Colleen says, too lightly for it to be anything but considered.

Owen frowns, seeming annoyed. George can feel a hint of the same annoyance in himself - as if they don’t know that.

“Maybe we don’t want you hoarding George to yourself, did you ever think about that?” Gracie rescues - George shoots her a grateful smile. “We haven’t seen _him_ since the Six Nations, since before you even told us. We want to get to know him.” The smile she sends back to George is sharklike, and he regrets everything. He’s not surprised Owen’s family are protective, he understands and respects the instinct, but it’s not exactly comfortable.

“He is the first boyfriend you’ve introduced us to, after all,” Colleen drops. George is aware that she’s watching his reaction but can’t mask the surprise on his face as he looks to Owen, who nods sheepish confirmation.

“Not surprising if you’ve been letting rugby players set you up,” George deflects after a moment.

Owen laughs, grimacing. “Glad I’m not going to have to go through that again!”

George grins at that, wide, staring at Owen for a moment after Owen has turned to his food. No, Owen won’t have to go through that again. George is still smiling as he lowers his gaze to his own food and starts to eat.

The meal passes mainly in light family chitchat - some of the names and references mean nothing to George but there’s more than enough rugby call backs to let him skate by. He and Andy even manage some perfectly friendly banter over their rugby league rivalries - instead, it’s Colleen George finds himself in trouble with. Owen’s sisters are certainly watching him, while Gabe seems generally happy, but Colleen’s the one with the questions.

She’s running what seems like a one woman operation to involve George in conversation, but her light questions always seem to take a turn that leaves George feeling defensive. How are his family - and do they know about Owen? Have they met him? How is he liking being back at Leicester - and how far exactly is that from Owen? What had happened at Bath? It’s not quite so obvious - George doesn’t think Owen has noticed - but it leaves him grateful she’d positioned herself by Owen, and not him.

“Normal curfew?” Owen asks George as the last dregs of wine are finally drunk - it’s been a slow meal, Owen’s family lingering over dessert.

“Yeah,” George agrees, checking his watch. “I’ve got time,” he assures Owen. It’s not much, but he does.

“Good,” Owen smiles, happy.

George smiles back, always glad to see that expression. George has a sudden wave of longing - he doesn’t want to leave Owen. He wants to be there, tomorrow morning, sending Owen off with a kiss for luck, waving the damn bus off with the rest of the families, even cheering him on from the stands. It’s a futile wish.

“Are you boys staying in London then?” Andy asks curiously.

“Yeah,” George tells him, shaking his thoughts off. “Because of -” he gestures to Owen “- we’ve got Captain’s Run earlier than usual, too early to drive up from Pennyhill tomorrow morning. It’s lucky, really - let me come here tonight,” he smiles at Owen.

“You’d’ve found time anyway?” Colleen asks.

George grimaces - once again he’s put on the defensive, and he knows full well that his answer this time is no good. “Probably not,” he admits. “Press conference barely finished at 12, I would’ve made it here then had to turn straight back to make curfew.”

“I forgot you had that,” Owen comments, the fact of it clear in his surprised tone.

“Co-captain, remember?” George reminds him jokily. “Not quite the full deal, but enough to get all the fun jobs.”

“How was it?” Andy asks - serious enough that George is sure he’s well aware of all the media talk around George’s position. 

“Fine,” George dismisses. He’s certainly not going to tell Andy how watched he felt, has felt all week. He hasn’t even mentioned that to Owen, not really.

“I’d forgotten,” Owen repeats. “I thought you guys were coming up earlier, you must have hardly seen the hotel.”

George just shrugs - he hadn’t, but he’s seen it more than enough times to not miss it.

“Don’t let us keep you,” Colleen offers, checking her own watch. “You must be tired.”

“A bit,” George admits - as co-captain he really shouldn’t cut it too close to curfew, he might as well lay the groundwork for leaving after clean up now.

Owen is frowning, looking guilty to have forgotten. “Not ideal to face these lot after press,” he gestures to his family, trying to joke.

“Charming,” Gracie arches an eyebrow. George winces too. He knows - he thinks - that Owen is just acknowledging George’s nerves, but it’s the closest anyone has come to addressing the fact that Owen’s parents actively distrust him. He’s been enjoying the pretence of a casual family evening, had thought Owen was fully wrapped up in it - in fact, maybe he had been, maybe if he’d sensed the occasional tension he would have been less likely to bring it up. 

“Well, if that’s how you feel you can do the washing up yourself,” Colleen says archly - George thinks she’s joking, can’t tell.

“I have a dishwasher,” Owen points out.

“Cook doesn’t clean,” Andy declares. “And I think it’s my turn to help out. I’m sure me and George can handle the clear up between us - right George?”

“Sure,” George agrees, surprised.

There’s a commotion as everyone passes their plates around the table to be stacked up, helps to carry things through to the kitchen before Owen’s siblings disappear into the lounge.

Andy levels Owen and Colleen with a look as they make motions to help. “Me and George will be fine,” he insists. “Go, sit,” he ushers them out of the room.

Owen pauses on the threshold, looking back at George. “Good luck,” he says solemnly.

George rolls his eyes, refusing to admit that he might need it. “Go,” he insists, smiling.

George has only put 3 things in the dishwasher before he caves, turning to where Andy is stood. “Alright?” he asks, keeping as much challenge out of it as he can.

“Yeah,” Andy nods, smiling blandly before turning serious. “He’s happy, you know,” he says, tilting his head towards the lounge, towards - presumably - Owen.

“A Premiership final and England captaincy will do that to a man,” George replies, wary. Is this where he gets warned to keep it that way?

“It’s not just that,” Andy dismisses. “It’s like after he came out to Sarries, he’s just happier generally. This time it’s on you.”

George goes going back to loading the dishwasher, unsure what to make of this - blessing? “You’ve changed your tune,” he jokes, after a moment, accepting the crockery Andy passes to him.

“Well, you’re looking back now,” Andy says simply.

George looks back up to Andy, frowns in confusion.

“When I coached, I’d catch Owen watching you - not often, but enough,” Andy explains. “Now you’re watching him back.”

“I’m - not sure I ever stopped,” George admits haltingly. He and Owen haven’t yet discussed this, their years apart, how they’d felt during them. It feels odd to discuss them with Andy, given that.

“Maybe not,” Andy accepts. “But I didn’t see that - I guess I wasn’t looking. I saw Owen looking at you, and you looking at his jersey.”

“Yeah, that wasn’t his jersey I was eyeing up,” George jokes.

Andy laughs obligingly.

“I never wanted -” George stalls, checks that what he’s about to say is absolutely true. “I never wanted the position at Owen’s expense. I wanted it, yes, and - I guess maybe I was short sighted. But I never pictured anything but both of us on the squad. I never wanted to kick him out, or really thought about it happening.”

“That probably was short sighted,” Andy agrees, but it’s friendly.

They work to load the dishwasher in silence for a few moments before George breaks, again.

“Just - trying not to be so short sighted -” he starts, takes a breath. “If you found out that two Ireland players were dating - how would you react? What do you think the reaction would be?”

“You mean if Eddie found out about you and Owen, what would he do?” Andy clarifies, dropping George’s flimsy pretence.

“Yeah,” George admits, letting out a heavy breath. “We’re not planning on telling him, but - if.”

Andy leans back against the counter, thinking. “I guess if you’ve already been dating for a while it can’t change anything,” he says finally. “I’m not Eddie Jones,” he warns, “but that would be my take, in the end. If it’s already been going on, without any negative impact, then there’s no need to change anything. It’s risky though, definitely worth being sure,” he cautions. “You know how things open up as soon as you tell people - just look at Owen telling England, half of Leinster know now. He said you don’t want to come out, to your team or publically, so - you better be sure. Even dating him is a risk, you know that,” Andy emphasises, frowning at George in what looks like concern - for him.

“Well like I said, we’re not planning anything,” George repeats. “Just - it can’t hurt to think about. And, I am - sure,” George says, feeling a little like he’s walking himself back into the defensive position he’d briefly managed to leave. “Whatever risk being together is - it’s worth it, there’s no way it’s not.”

Andy visibly sizes George up. “Okay,” he accepts. “I’m convinced.”

“Just Colleen to go then,” George jokes. He’s pretty sure he’s brought Owen’s sisters around, thinks they were always more curious than anything, and Gabe is easy to please.

“She just knows how tough dating a rugby player can be,” Andy dismisses - something George personally thinks is probably worth more consideration. “Give her time, she’ll realise Owen won’t change his mind. You’re what he wants, and he’s never been big on compromise.”

George tries to hide the full extent of his smile at Andy’s assessment of his and Owen’s longevity by ducking to fit the last of the cutlery in the dishwasher. He’s not sure it’s very effective. “Shall we?” he asks, tilting his head towards the lounge as he turns the dishwasher on.

Andy nods, leading the way.

“I thought you were flying back on Sunday,” Owen is saying, surprised, when George and Andy enter the lounge.

Elleshia shakes her head. “And miss the England match? Never,” she scoffs.

George smiles at that, dropping into the free seat next to Owen.

“So we thought we could see you Monday morning, maybe wish you some last luck?” Colleen suggests.

Owen shakes his head as he automatically throws an arm around the back of George’s seat. “I’ve got that meeting with Gareth Thomas in the morning, sorry,” he grimaces. 

“I didn’t realise you’d organised that,” Andy says, surprised, settling down next to Colleen.

“Yeah, last weekend,” Owen nods. “Did I not say?”

“You only said how nice it was to have George visit, about 17 thousand times,” Gracie snarks.

George fails to hide yet another grin, blushing but leaning in to Owen’s side as Owen puts his arm around George properly.

“You’re really moving on this,” Colleen gets the conversation back on track.

“Yeah,” Owen shrugs. “Now England know, the Premiership - might as well.”

Owen’s sisters snort at that, and George sends them an amused look, to share in their reaction. “Ridiculous,” he agrees.

“I did say I’d probably do it over the off season,” Owen defends.

“You did,” Colleen accepts. “Have you got an actual plan?” she asks, long suffering tone suggesting that she knows the answer will be no.

“Yeah,” Owen contradicts. “Ask the experienced guy his opinion,” he grins cheekily.

“It’s a step up,” Colleen sighs, barely masking a fond smile.

“Georgie’s wise idea,” Owen grins, squeezing him a little.

“What do you think about this, George?” Colleen asks.

“I think it’s amazing,” George replies directly, putting a hand on Owen’s knee. “And I think Owen’s right - after a bit it won’t be so different, hard as that is to imagine.”

“But you don’t want to come out yourself?” Colleen asks, an air of confirmation around it.

“No, I -” George pauses. “No,” he says simply.

He doesn’t know how to express that he doesn’t want to, personally, that he doesn’t think it’s really anyone’s business, without it sounding like he disagrees with Owen’s own choice. So long as his family know, his friends, George doesn’t want or need anyone else’s judgement. He can just imagine it, everyone talking about him, airing their irrelevant, uninformed opinions. Being careful with his words in certain situations is worth it to avoid that, for him. George doesn’t want to talk about their relationship - the fact that he’s in a relationship, even - to anyone outside of the people he actually knows, doesn’t particularly want to discuss his sexuality full stop - so no, he doesn’t want to come out.

“Fair enough,” Andy accepts.

Colleen frowns. “But with Owen coming out, that’s - risky,” she suggests, glancing between the two of them.

George looks at Owen, shrugs. “Nothing to do with me,” he says, quoting Owen’s own take on the situation. He’d taken the words a little hard at the time, but the more he thought about them the more he realised it was true, really, as involved as he is, would like to be, in Owen’s life. Funnily enough it’s Owen looking dissatisfied by them now. “The media have no reason to link it to me,” George expands. “It’s not really that big a risk, I don’t think, and - it’s worth it,” he shrugs again.

Colleen doesn’t press the matter again. But then, she’s hardly given a chance to as Owen looks at his watch.

“You should go,” he tells George.

“It’s been nice to see you too love,” George says archly, making Owen pull a face. George chuckles at that, but does check his own watch. “You’re right,” he concedes. He _really_ shouldn’t miss curfew as co-captain, should be back with plenty of time to spare. He doesn’t have plenty left.

George says his goodbyes to Owen’s family, surprised but pleased when Andy also pulls him in for a hug this time. As Andy releases him George catches Colleen giving them a speculative look, and Owen - Owen looks like he can hardly believe it, though he hides that quickly.

“Walk me out?” George requests, tilting his head towards the door in invitation.

Owen’s sisters catcall, and George just laughs as Owen blushes - yet immediately takes George up on the invitation, pulling him by the hand.

“Enjoy the match!” George bids finally, waving Owen’s family goodbye.

“So,” Owen says, when they’re standing together at the front door.

“So,” George echoes. “I think that went well?”

“Yeah,” Owen nods. “Yeah, I think it did. What did you say to dad, in the kitchen?”

“He’d already changed his mind,” George shakes his head, still a little bemused by that explanation. “He was actually - giving me his blessing, I think,” he summarises, as easily as he can.

Owen pulls a face. “As if you need it,” he scoffs, but it only takes a moment for that expression to fall, for relief to break through. As dismissive as Owen had been of his parents not liking, not trusting, George, George knows full well how important his family is to Owen. Their disapproval hadn’t stopped him from dating George, and Owen claims they’ve never really brought it up, but - if they can get on, George knows it’ll mean a lot.

“It was nice,” George says mildly. “Just have to hope I passed with your mum,” he adds, unable to tell. He thinks he’d managed to answer most of her questions okay, but if Andy is right and she just doesn’t want Owen dating a rugby player then he’s never _going_ to pass.

“You seemed to be getting on well to me,” Owen shrugs. “And if dad’s convinced, she’ll listen to him.”

George just shrugs in reply, not knowing how that will go. He steps forwards to give Owen a kiss, dismissing that discussion, staying in his hold after their lips part. “Good luck,” he wishes, soft. “I’ll be watching.”

“Yeah?” Owen checks, with a small smile.

“Of course,” George scoffs, scolds.

Owen grins. “Good luck to you too,” he says. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow night anyway, yeah?”

George opens his mouth to brush Owen off, tell him he doesn’t have to if he’d rather be celebrating or commiserating with his team. Then he stops himself - he’ll want to hear from Owen, like always, and Owen had made the offer. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Talk to you then.”

George pulls Owen in for one final, tight hug, accepts a last lingering kiss. “You’re going to smash them,” he encourages, one hand on Owen’s door handle.

Owen grins, sharp. “We’re going to try,” he promises.

George grins in return, slips out the door before Owen can tempt him back.


	14. Chapter 14

When the Premiership final finally starts George has a solid bedrock of confidence in Owen and his team, but it’s almost lost under a mountain of nerves. He wants this for Owen, knows how much it means to him, how hard he’s worked for it. He’s sure the same is true of everyone at Exeter, too, not to mention every other Saracens player, but George isn’t dating them, doesn’t care.

George watches the match with the rest of the England squad for the Barbarians, ends up making his bias a little clearer than he might have planned. That’s okay, though; most of the lads are rooting for Sarries. Everyone - apart from George - agrees it’s a shame the match isn’t as competitive as they think Exeter deserved, but there are so many Saracens in the regular England squad it’s not surprising most of the team are inclined towards them. George doesn’t stand out - apart from the moment when Ben asks about Owen’s injury, wonders aloud if he could have been carrying it already, and George shakes his head without thinking about it. He’d’ve got away with it if it had been anyone but Ben, but given that it was Ben he’d noticed. George thinks he rescued it, made up some excuse about not being able to see a difference in Owen’s kicking, doesn’t think anyone other than Ben had been paying attention anyway. 

After the match finishes some of the guys disappear off to their rooms to play Fortnite but George stays in the lounge with the rest of the squad. There’s a little talk of the match but mostly it’s just socialising, building up team bonds. It’s more than an hour after the match, nearly dinner time, when George’s phone finally rings. He doesn’t even look at the display before getting up, offering a quick a apology to the guys he’s sat with. 

“Hey,” George greets, voice low, moving away to find some privacy.

“Hello?” Owen replies, more loudly.

“Yeah, hi, I’m here,” George confirms, leaving the lounge the lads have gathered in and standing a little away from the door in the corridor outside. “Congratulations,” he goes on, packing as much warmth into it as he can.

“Thanks,” Owen replies, smile clear in his voice even over the din of what is presumably his team bus. “We did it!” he exclaims - and now George can hear a hint of looseness in Owen’s voice, too: he’s well on his way to drunk.

“I saw,” George says dryly. “You did very well. Enjoying your victory?” George asks.

“Yeah! Yeah, babe, I’m - I’m so happy,” Owen is quieting now, a little, apparent excitement at getting through to George fading.

“That’s good,” George smiles, soft. “You’re okay, then?” he checks.

“Oh, yeah,” Owen confirms. “Cramp, bloody annoying, but nothing worse,” he rambles. “Ball to the head hurt but I figure it’s karma. Wanted to be on the pitch so bad, but Lozo did great out there. I’m still on for South Africa, still good for that.”

“Yeah?” George checks. “You get a HIA?”

“Had to,” George can hear Owen’s grimace. “Boring, but all good, they let me out to watch the boys bring it home.”

“They must happy too - sounds like fun on your end,” George says as the volume from behind Owen peaks into what sounds like cheers.

“Yeah, it’s pretty good,” Owen laughs. “Got some karaoke going on the bus, might need to demand it for England.”

“Brilliant,” George laughs too. “You and the lads going to bring all that energy with you to South Africa, yeah?”

“Gonna try,” Owen replies, and George can hear his grin, can just picture it. “Gonna _wreck_ ‘em,” he claims next.

“We’ll see,” George replies, amused. “I hope so.”

There’s a commotion on Owen’s end. “Get lost,” George hears Owen call, voice distant from the phone. “I’m talking to my boyfriend, you fuckers can wait! Sorry,” Owen says, voice back next to the phone. “Apparently it’s my turn for karaoke.”

“Go, enjoy,” George encourages. “It’s nearly dinner time here anyway.”

“Yeah?” Owen checks, sounding reluctant over the catcalls coming from behind him.

“Yeah,” George assures him. “Congratulations, again. Go show off, enjoy it.”

“Thanks,” Owen says, sincere. “And good luck to you too, yeah?”

The door to the lounge opens and Ben pops his head through.

“Thanks love,” George says, turning away from Ben, surprised by how easily the endearment springs to his lips. He’d just been avoiding staying ‘Owen’. “Have a good evening - I’ll speak to you tomorrow night?”

“Yeah,” Owen agrees, over the din of Saracens now chanting his name on repeat. “Or maybe in the morning - good luck,” he wishes, again, and hangs up.

George lowers his phone, turning back to Ben - sees Ellis there too. He holds back a wince - Ellis sits right on that teammate/friend line that George hasn’t quite decided what to do with yet, not to mention that he’s the guy George is most worried about having overheard when he told Jonny and Matt. “Alright?” George asks.

“The other half?” Ellis teases.

“Yep,” George agrees, not seeing much way out.

“Cool,” Ellis smiles, friendly. “We were just checking if you were coming for dinner?” he tells George.

“And that took two of you?” George arches an eyebrow.

“Well it took Ben to decide to come eavesdrop and me to actually open the door,” Ellis says.

“Sounds about right,” George sighs, mock-exasperated. “Thanks,” he says, over Ben’s offended squawks. 

“No worries,” Ellis shrugs, turning back to go to the dining room. 

George shakes his head, following his teammates. Ellis definitely knows.

~~~

To say George is frustrated after the Barbarians match would be an understatement. They can do better, they should have done better, and George couldn’t get it out of them. It wasn’t solely his job, of course it wasn’t, but a pretty big chunk of it was. Between his roles as fly half and co-captain George can’t help but feel the loss weigh heavy.

Things only feel worse when he gets back to the locker room and finds a message from Owen sending his commiserations and asking if they can video call late tonight, breaking their unspoken routine of whoever’s just played calling at their own convenience. George supposes he’s still too busy celebrating with his team to want George interrupting. Or, no. 

George pauses, taking a breath. That’s neither true nor fair - Owen had told George this morning that he was skipping out on some of the Sarries celebrations to have a last meal with his family tonight. It’s not Owen’s fault neither of them had thought the timing through before now. George quickly types out a message saying that’s fine, sends it and drops his face to his hands.

A hand lands heavy on the back of his head. “Alright?” Ben asks.

George just grunts.

“Yeah,” Ben sighs agreement. “Yeah.”

They share a moment like that before George remembers his conversation with Owen after his Wasps semi final, starts laughing. 

“What?” Ben asks, confused, moving his hand.

George shakes his head, raising it to look at Ben. “My - partner -” George stumbles over the word, never having used it before “- they said you could look after me in camp, and -” he waves a hand, gesturing to their situation. Sharing sadness is looking after, in George’s book.

Ben grins. “I don’t see what’s funny about that,” he protests. “I _do_ look after you.”

“Oh, sure,” George agrees, nodding solemnly. “I’m the one who needs looking after here.”

“You used to be sixteen!” Ben exclaims.

“And now I’m 25, and your captain,” George shakes his head, laughing, as he stands to get changed.

“You think I don’t help Tom?” Ben demands. “No man is an island! See if I try to comfort you again,” he grumbles.

“Thanks, Ben,” George says, clapping him on the shoulder - teasing, but still meaning it. Luckily that’s something Ben understands well.

~~~

It’s hours later, after a deliberately, falsely, upbeat post match dinner, that Owen finally calls. George has made it all the way home, looking forward to two nights in a row in his own bed to recharge - not looking forward to the packing. He’s even already settled into said bed, ready to put the day behind him, only still awake because he hasn’t spoken to Owen. 

“Hi,” George greets, quirking a small smile to see Owen in pretty much the same position as him. But then he remembers - match reaction time, right. The pain comes flooding back.

“Hey Georgie,” Owen mirrors his smile. “Alright?” he asks, soft.

“Alright,” George agrees - caves in an instant when Owen looks unconvinced. “Frustrated. Annoyed. Disappointed. Kind of upset,” George shrugs. “Name a negative emotion, really.”

“Georgie -” Owen seems to lack words. “Not a test match, doesn’t count?” he offers.

“Easy to say when you’re not the one who just lost it,” George points out.

Owen winces despite the amount of effort George had put in to keeping his words light. “You’re right,” he accepts instantly. “I just - wish I was there. Not so good with words.”

“You do alright,” George protests. It had been Owen with the words that had got the two of them back together, after all. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t wish Owen was there, doesn’t want to take comfort in his arms, but - just talking to him is good too.

His response seems to encourage Owen to try.

“You did so well,” Owen says, quiet, earnest. “I get that it sucks, I do. I’d be so frustrated,” he admits. “So annoyed, but you - you couldn’t’ve done more. Those tries you set up, your defence. Catching Chris Ashton, twice!” Owen whistles admiration.

George grins, bashful, allowing himself to be distracted. “Not sure he was so impressed.”

“I bet he wasn’t, it was damn good,” Owen insists. “I was watching with Sarries, we know how fast he is - a lot of impressed people there. I was so impressed, babe,” he says finally, soft.

George feels his smile grow, become more genuine than bashful. That _had_ felt good. “Good celebrations then?” he asks, ready to move on from the discussion of his day. They’ll rehash the match in camp, he’s sure, if not formally with the coaches then between themselves. They’ve got time, coming up - no need to poke a fresh wound.

Owen gives George an assessing look, might well come to the same conclusion. “Yeah,” Owen smiles fondly at the memories. “Just - really nice, pretty peaceful for us - at least while I was there! Just really happy, really nice way to spend the day. And it was great to see my family again, too,” he adds. “Same there, just pretty calm, happy. Couldn’t’ve asked for a better end to the season - except for you winning, of course.”

George feels his smile soften at Owen’s obvious happiness, shakes his head to dismiss the unnecessary clarification. Never mind their relationship, it’s England - George would never have thought otherwise. “That’s good,” he says, gentle. “I’m glad you had a great day, love,” he says - and there the word is again, slipping out.

“Thanks,” Owen smiles, sweet, a frankly inadequate substitute for the kiss George suspects he would have got - knows he would have given - if they were actually face to face. “Wish you’d had the same,” he adds, smile turning sad.

George shrugs, trying to keep his distance from that sting. “Nah, we’ll break the streak under your captaincy - give you the credit,” he grins, teasing.

“Very nice gift,” Owen thanks him.

“Well, you know, I could have chased down all those Ashton tries,” George goes on, pleased at his success at brightening Owen’s smile once again. “Just thought I’d wait until you Sarries lads come back, share the joy.”

Owen laughs. “Generous,” he praises. “And good to know - I’ll suggest putting you on the wing in South Africa, yeah?”

George rolls his eyes. “You better not,” he grumbles.

Owen just chuckles, warm.

“How’re you feeling about tomorrow?” George checks after a moment.

“Yeah, fine,” Owen shrugs noncommittally.

“D’you know what you’re going to ask yet?” George follows up, feeling pretty sure Owen must have more thoughts about his meeting with Gareth Thomas than ‘fine’.

“Not really,” Owen sighs, pulling a face. “I’ve been thinking about how I’m going to do it, mostly,” he tells George. “Without involving the media, or making a statement.”

George nods slowly, frowning himself. That is a tough one. “Just a tweet?” he suggests, knowing immediately that that’s not right.

Owen shakes his head. “Same thing as a statement, really,” he explains his dismissal. “I don’t want it to be the focus of whatever it is, I think that’s the thing.”

“And you’ll never get away with just mentioning it in a press conference, or interview, without it becoming the focus,” George realises.

“Yeah,” Owen nods. “I need something long, like an interview, but not with anyone in the media.”

“Like a YouTube video,” George suggests. “Like Tom Daley, only - not.”

“It’d work if I had an account, or ever did anything like that,” Owen says, rueful in a way that suggests he’s thought of it himself.

“England have an account,” George points out.

“You think they’d let me do something like that?” Owen asks, sounding sceptical. 

George shrugs. “Can’t know until you try,” he points out.

Owen hums consideration. “I still don’t know what I’d work it in to,” he dismisses. “And I wanted to ask, actually - can I tell him about you?”

“Oh, yeah,” George agrees, unthinking. Owen having a boyfriend seems relevant to his situation, whether he plans to mention that fact in his actual coming out or not.

“Like, by name?” Owen checks, brow furrowing. “I could just say that you play, I know he’s kind of media.”

George shakes his head. “He’s not exactly going to out us, is he,” he points out - but does take a moment to more fully consider what Owen’s asking. Secrecy of their relationship is something they’d agreed on right from the start, but Gareth Thomas has no involvement in their lives, no ability to make their careers awkward - at least not without outing them, which George trusts he wouldn’t do. “Yeah, it’s fine,” George assures Owen again. “It seems relevant - though I know, I know, nothing to do with me,” he shrugs.

Owen’s frown deepens at hearing his own words. “That was harsh,” he admits, sounding regretful.

George shakes his head. “You were right,” he says. “I mean, I appreciate that, it wasn’t brilliantly said,” he concedes. “But I was in that whole spiral about more and more people knowing, and you coming out wasn’t linked to that, to me, at all.”

Owen doesn’t seem totally convinced. “I guess,” he hedges.

George pauses trying to read Owen’s expression. “I care about it, of course I do,” he insists - not wanting to essentially do exactly what Owen’s words had done to him, distance them from each other. “It’s like - it’s important in my life because it’s important to you, yeah?” If there were together in person he’d reach out, touch Owen’s knee or something, reassure him physically. As it is all he can do is look up, make eye contact with his camera, with Owen, before looking back down to Owen’s face on his screen. “And you’re -” he lacks words for what Owen is to him, gestures helplessly.

“Yeah,” Owen agrees, letting him off the hook.

George takes the out, feeling bad about it - but judging by Owen’s face he’s got a pretty good idea what George means.

“But that doesn’t mean it, the story, will actually be anything to do with me,” George summarises lamely, once he’s remembered what on earth he was saying.

“Yeah,” Owen accepts, face still soft.

“I’ll be thinking about you tomorrow, yeah?” George tells Owen. “It’ll go great.”

“Thanks,” Owen smiles, before being interrupted by his own yawn.

George takes the moment to just - look, at Owen. Stifling a yawn too huge to be attractive, lying shirtless in a bed George is honestly starting to prefer to his own. It’s not an Owen many people see. They see him shouting in matches, awkward in press, even laughing with his friends in both those settings. But tucked up in bed, thoughtfully discussion the specifics of his impending coming out - very few people get that. George isn’t sure he’s the only one, he knows Owen has discussed this with his parents, but he’s not far off.

George had gotten a big portion of Owen, the last few years, seen a different side of him nearly a decade before that. He’d seen had the side he showed to lovers, then got the part reserved for close friends. Now, he thinks, he’s got both, got everything - and he loves it. He loves Owen. Maybe it’s too early to say that, too naive to think emotions that big can grow this quickly, but George thinks they both probably had a bit of a head start. If George is going to feel it anyway, he might as well think it: he loves Owen.


	15. Chapter 15

England camp for South Africa starts, as England camps typically do, with a meal. Normally it’s dinner, a chance for everyone to spend the evening catching up - or more accurately, gossiping - before training begins in earnest. This camp, with Monday taken off, it’s lunch. They won’t train today, the day instead to be filled with meetings and physical assessments, and yes - a fair amount of gossiping. 

George arrives at camp a little later than he might have liked, but there’s still a good half hour left before lunch once he’s put his things in his room. When he enters the lounge he smiles to see most of the Sarries guys already there, slotting right back in to their typical friendship groups. There are a few lads looking awkward, sitting close to their teammates, but it’s nothing on the division of the Brighton camp. 

George heads over to the gathering of chairs Jonny seems to be entertaining, slipping into a seat next to Elliot Daly and offering a quiet general greeting. He doesn’t get much back, most of Jamie and Elliot’s attention absorbed in Jonny’s attempts to explain something to a baffled looking Maro. George listens for barely a minute before he realises it’s one of many occasions when Jonny has forgotten what he was actually saying - whether he’s realised it himself or not. Jonny normally talks himself in circles, but these particular ones are getting further and further away from joining up.

“Maro, Jamie,” George says, interrupting for both Jonny and Maro’s own good. “Brilliant match on Saturday lads, congratulations on the title.”

“Thanks,” Jamie smiles genially. “It felt really good out there, hoping we’ll all feel the same in a couple of weeks.”

“I hope so too,” George agrees.

Maro takes a moment to respond, still frowning at Jonny. Eventually he does turn to George, visibly giving up on his previous conversation. “Thank you,” he says seriously. “You played well on Sunday, too - tough loss.”

George just grimaces.

“Yeah, great catch on Ashton, Fordy,” Jamie puts in. “We watched the match at the celebrations, thought Faz was going to put out a lung whooping you on at that.”

George feels himself blush, lets himself grin - not least because a smile any smaller would be too obviously fond. “It did feel good,” he admits. Owen had said he was impressed, hadn’t mentioned anything about cheering him on. Knowing about that feels almost as good as the catch itself had.

Lozowski comes over to fill the second to last seat in their loose circle, greeted by congratulations from Jonny and Elliot. He’s one of the few guys who might be sticking close to their teammates, but George supposes that’s not hard to do when your teammates make up so much of the squad.

“Congratulations,” George says, adding to the chorus. “You had a great match,” he tells Lozowski, sincere.

“Thanks,” Lozo grins, still smug and glowing with it. George has a moment of picturing Owen that smug, glowing with pride in himself and his team, has to refocus himself quickly.

They’ve managed to move the conversation on from rugby to South Africa as a destination - if that really counts as moving on - by the time someone comes to fill the last seat in their little group. George looks around at Maro and Jamie’s happy greetings, echoes them with one of his own. “Owen, hi!” he exclaims, grinning.

“Hey,” Owen greets the group as a whole, smiling at George for a moment.

“Congratulations captain,” Elliot grins.

“Yeah, great match, congratulations,” Jonny adds. 

“Thanks guys,” Owen ducks his head, grinning, as he sits.

“Glad to see you here - we got worried when you went off in the second half,” Jonny says, clearly looking for Owen to explain.

“You played great before that though - congrats,” George tacks on, quick, suddenly realising he’d missed his cue. The others weren’t to know he’d already congratulated Owen, only hours after the match.

Owen sends him a smirk - hopefully no one else had noticed quite how utterly George had forgotten. “It was just cramp,” he tells Jonny. “Annoying, but nothing to worry about.”

Jonny nods acceptance.

“And not feeling any worse for your celebrations?” Elliot asks innocently. “I know I didn’t expect to see Jamie looking so lively today.”

“Oi!” Jamie exclaims. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m fit and ready to train, like always.”

“Yeah, like always,” Maro agrees, sly.

There’s a round of laughter, after which Elliot’s straight back onto teasing Owen. “Saw your singing on the bus - you going to serenade us with as much passion?”

“If we win,” Owen tells him, smirking.

“Well with an offer like that...” Elliot trails off.

“I’m still convinced he was dedicating that to his boyfriend,” Jamie cuts in.

“Keep that up and I certainly won’t be dedicating it to my teammates anymore,” Owen replies, quick.

“Oh, there’s a boyfriend now?!” Elliot exclaims, sounding excited.

“Did you get set up with someone good? Finally get a good date off a rugby player?” George asks, teasing - only realising after the fact that he and Owen haven’t actually been on a real date. They’ve had what George would call date nights, sure, but only at home. They haven’t been out together, couldn’t. 

Owen pulls a face. “Not a chance,” he denies, only glancing at George quickly before looking back to Elliot and Jamie. “Found this guy all by myself, thanks.”

George bites his lip, unsure if he’s made Owen uncomfortable. He knows he’s made himself uncomfortable with the realisation that public dates aren’t something he can offer Owen. He hadn't missed them, hasn't seen any sign that Owen has either - they've settled into a comfortable domesticity very quickly - but it's still not a pleasant thought. 

“How long have you guys been together?” Jonny asks, all polite interest.

“A few months,” Owen replies, smiling slightly and once again not looking at George.

“What’s he called?” Elliot asks.

“He won’t tell us,” Jamie answers for Owen, who sits back and rolls his eyes at the interruption. “ _I_ think he’s wildly famous and closeted, a name we’d know immediately. I think Owen’s protecting him.”

George glances at Maro to see what he makes of this unexpected, seemingly largely unfounded assumption, finds him watching Owen shift awkwardly. Maro’s heard the idea before, George realises, judging from his reaction. Owen hadn’t mentioned his teammates having come up with that. And for all Jamie had been blasé in his delivery of the idea, Maro isn’t the only guy in their circle to look seriously considering.

“Makes sense,” Jonny nods, thoughtful.

“That’s tough,” Elliot says sympathetically.

“Who said he had to be famous for me to want to keep him away from you lads? I’m not an idiot, I’m not giving you lot a chance to scare him away,” Owen deflects. He’s stopped the awkward shifting, and the defence is solid, but George can see the nervous tension still held in his clenched fist, feels it mirrored in his own jaw.

Lozo scoffs. “We’re your teammates - if we can scare him off then he won’t last long.”

“You guys have put a lot of thought into this,” George says, surprised and more than a little wary. Now he understands more why Owen had been cautious about not letting Sarries work out that he was a player - they’re nosier than he would have thought to expect.

“Do you know how long I’ve known Owen and he’s never dated anyone seriously?” Jamie demands. “Years. It’s been years of him dodging all questions, then going on blind dates just to shut us up - now he’s finally _got_ a boyfriend and he won’t let us meet him! It’s maddening.”

“Though of course we don’t actually want to figure out who it is, not if the guy doesn’t want people to know he’s gay,” Maro says deliberately. Half of George wants to appreciate that, but most of him wishes he wouldn’t so clearly take what Jamie had delivered as a rash, off hand thought so seriously. It’s just encouraging Jonny and Elliot to do the same, and they’d seemed sold enough on the idea as it was.

“Of course,” Lozo and Jamie agree, longsuffering.

“Very convincing boys,” Elliot tells them, laughing.

“Well we’re not going to _tell_ anyone,” Jamie whines. “We’d just thought Faz was done keeping secrets.”

George thinks he’s done a very good job at remaining impassive throughout the conversation, but he winces at that. He guesses Owen might have thought the same, until George came back into things. Or maybe he hadn’t even had the chance - getting back with George, hiding that, had overlapped with him coming out to the England squad. He feels bad for that, but this conversation is doing an excellent job of being everything George feared, leaving him on tenterhooks and more certain than ever that he can’t come out to his teammates. He just can’t. Hearing them gossip about, judge him, as Owen’s nameless boyfriend is bad enough - imagining guys he barely knows having this kind of conversation about _him_ , it’s - George won’t even think about it.

“I’m not keeping secrets - you know I’m dating him, don’t you?” Owen points out. 

“So I know he’s gay too, great - what kind of basis is that to judge a boyfriend on?” Jamie demands.

“Well he’s not gay, so you probably shouldn’t judge off that,” Owen tells him, sounding amused.

“You’re dating a straight guy?” Jamie asks, frowning.

“Have you heard of bisexuality, Jinksie?” Elliot asks, earnest, teasing.

“I guess not,” Owen quirks a smile, amused, as realisation dawns on Jamie’s face and he face palms at his own stupidity. “My boyfriend has, though.”

George doesn’t look at Jonny, can’t. Jonny’s hardly going to assume that just because Owen’s boyfriend is bi it must be George, the only bi guy he knows. George isn’t worried about that. It’s even the thought of seeing an acknowledgement of his sexuality in this space, with these people, that George can’t handle, not off the back of this conversation. 

George is relieved to hear a rumble of activity before anyone responds to Owen’s words, everyone standing at the lunchtime call George had missed. George pulls out his phone as the others stand, still discussing Owen’s boyfriend - still discussing him. He'll take the opportunity to lose contact with the group, sit for lunch with people who aren't gossiping about him.

“We know the important thing,” Maro says pointedly. “We know he makes Owen happy.”

“That is the important thing,” Elliot agrees. 

The lads have turned away from where George is sat by now, walking towards the dining room, but George can tell Owen is blushing from the back of his neck and duck of his head. 

Jamie grunts. “I guess,” he concedes with bad grace. “If we’re judging off that, then yeah - I guess he seems pretty good.”

George is surprised to find a smile tugging at his lips at that, shares the smile with Owen when he glances back, presumably noticing George missing from their group. Owen holds their eye contact and tilts his head, beckoning George to catch up with them again, but George just raises his phone as an excuse. Unbothered as he may have found himself by Jamie’s last words George would still rather discuss something else over lunch. Owen frowns briefly but turns away to follow the others, letting it go - George wonders if he can tell why.

~~~

George ends up missing Owen at dinner too, slightly less deliberately. He’s already heading over to Ben and Mike by the time he spots Owen chatting to Jonny, decides not to change his path. They normally spend a lot of time together in camp, but George has never been quite as conscious of it as he feels now - during the Six Nations he’d been more wrapped up in just seeing Owen than aware of how they might come across to the others. 

For all his self consciousness George is glad when Owen drops down into the armchair nearest George as the squad settles into the lounge after dinner. He smiles at Owen, greets him happily before returning to his conversation with Ben. If they were at home, either of their homes, George would have kissed him instead. Owen is sat close enough that George would only have to move his foot a couple of inches for it to knock against Owen’s, his knee in easy range of George’s hand. George is surprised to occasionally have to stop himself from reaching out - sometimes in emphasis of a point he’s making, sometimes just absently while listening to someone else.

It’s their norm, now - to sit close, to touch freely, to kiss whenever they feel like it. Not being able to do that feels odd, more so than George might have expected. Over the Six Nations it had been fine, the abnormality there being time spent in private, every moment with the freedom to touch treasured. Now - it’s not that their touches aren’t still special, not that George’s heart doesn’t race when Owen kisses him, but they’re not expectional anymore. Sometimes that’s exactly what makes George’s heart race, when Owen touches him absently and he feels how naturally that comes, how settled they’ve become in their relationship. George doesn’t consider it before he touches Owen, anymore, takes the freedom and permission to do so for granted. The motions have become automatic, practiced - it’s unsettling to find that freedom gone. 

The evening slides by quickly, Owen’s boyfriend brought up once but quickly moved past - not everyone is as interested in Owen’s personal life as his teammates, apparently. George won’t pretend that’s not a relief. It’s a bit of a surprise, as well, to find Ben only asking a couple of follow up questions, but George certainly won’t complain. George thinks Owen must feel at least a degree of the self consciousness that he does in from of their teammates because their only contact comes when Owen moves to leave, placing a hand on George’s knee to help himself to standing. 

George takes that as the invitation it is, standing to follow Owen and falling into step with him and Ben on their way back to the rooms. George is glad when Ben’s door comes before both his and Owen’s, bidding Ben goodnight and following Owen along the corridor until he stops outside what must be his own door. Owen only makes a brief cursory check of George’s presence over his shoulder, doesn’t even bother verbally inviting him in before opening the door and leading them both inside.

Owen turns immediately when the door snicks shut, takes George into his arms and kisses him soft and brief once, twice, three times. George guesses Owen had found greeting each other without a kiss, without their normal connection, as odd as he had - he’s certainly wasting no time making up for it.

“Hi, Captain,” George greets.

“Hey Georgie,” Owen returns, eyes sparkling. George hauls him in for another kiss, this one slow and lingering.

“Congratulations on your win,” George murmurs into the air between them when they part, their faces still close.

And now it’s Owen dragging George back in, making their kiss tender, sweet. “Sorry about your match,” Owen offers, voice gentle.

George pulls a rueful face. “Yeah,” he acknowledges, taking a moment to appreciate the silent comfort of Owen’s arms, the soothing rhythm created by the thumb he’s snuck onto George’s hip under his shirt, the gentle rubbing there. “Come on then,” he urges, taking a hold of the hand that had been on his hip and walking Owen to sit down on the edge of his bed. “How was your meeting with Gareth Thomas?” 

They’d texted, yesterday evening, but they’d both still been in the midst of a packing rush and decided it would be better to talk face to face.

“Yeah, good,” Owen nods, tilting himself in towards George so their knees brush. “He told me to call him Alfie, can’t have gone that badly,” Owen quirks a grin. “And we came up with a plan - to use YouTube, like we were saying. Slip it into some kind of captain’s review of the tour, if they’ll let me. I already talked to Eddie, he didn’t think there’d be a problem, but I’ve got to speak to some PR guys tomorrow and sort it out with them.”

“That sounds great,” George encourages. “That’s the perfect way to do it, yeah? You’re happy with that?”

“Yeah,” Owen agrees. “Don’t think we could come up with something better.”

“Well, hey, if you’re not happy,” George begins, cuts himself off when Owen waves a dismissive hand before dropping it onto George’s thigh.

“No, I am, this is how I want to do it,” Owen assures him.

“Good, then,” George smiles. “Because I was willing to try and come up with something else, but it would’ve been struggle.”

“I appreciate the thought,” Owen smiles. He squeezes that hand on George’s thigh and leans in to kiss him briefly again.

George smiles, resting his hand on top of Owen’s. “It’s really happening then,” he says, light, giving Owen space to talk about it.

“Yeah,” Owen blows out a breath. “It does make it feel a bit more real,” he goes on, looking away from George into the middle distance. “Telling Alfie was - harder than I thought, weirdly. I didn’t expect it to feel like anything, but I guess - I don’t know him, not really, not like I have everyone else, and it was different. Good though, when it was done,” he looks back to George, smiles teasingly. “I liked being able to tell him about you, brag about dating you.”

George smiles back, awkward. He is glad to hear that, genuinely, but it reminds him a bit too sharply of who else Owen hasn’t been able to tell about their relationship. Of Jamie George, and his words about hiding, of George’s own discomfort with the discussion. “Did he approve a bit better than your Sarries, then?” George asks, trying to make a joke of it.

Owen frowns, cocking his head, gaze flicking over George’s face. “Don’t know where you got the idea they disapprove,” he says lightly, turning his hand over on George’s thigh to hold his hand instead. “But yeah, he seemed impressed you were so supportive while taking a different path.”

Not exactly the ringing endorsement George had hoped for. Impressed means George had surpassed expectations, which suggests expectations were low. Suggests that Gareth was surprised George could support Owen while acting differently to him. It seems like a joke to George - just because Owen is making one decision and him another doesn’t mean he can’t understand Owen’s path, see it as necessary for him, still support him every step of the way. 

But from Jamie’s words George can see, has been reminded, that making different decisions isn’t all it is. George’s decision affects Owen, in this. He’s forcing Owen to keep secrets. It’s like when they were teenagers all over again, but this time George is more aware of it. George can support Owen in what he’s doing, of course he can, but he can’t stop the way his choices limit Owen. 

That doesn’t mean his choices aren’t still the right ones for him, though. George still doesn’t want to come out to the public, or the wider rugby community. And Jamie George’s comments had only served to solidify how much George doesn’t want to open up what the two of them have to their teammates, open them up for commentary and mocking and judgement, as well intended and disguised as teasing as most of it would be by the time it reached their ears. 

“Alfie said mostly guys who come to him are a lot more undecided,” Owen says, when George fails to respond. “Said he was sorry he couldn’t be more helpful, that he works best as a sounding board rather than having to give actual advice.”

“He solved how you’re going to come out,” George says, baffled.

“That’s what I told him!” Owen exclaims. “Never mind that I wouldn’t be here without him,” he shakes his head.

“You think you wouldn’t?” George asks, thoughtful.

“Oh, not you too,” Owen groans. “He said the same, said I’d be here anyway.”

“Well...,” George shrugs. “Hard to imagine you keeping it in.”

“If I was the first?” Owen shakes his head. “I don’t know how brave the two of you think I am, but I don’t think I could open myself up to that press if I was the first.”

“You think the reaction’ll be so different?” George frowns, unconvinced. He doesn’t think the fact of other out rugby players will stop the media having a field day with Owen’s coming out.

“Maybe not,” Owen acknowledges. “But it feels different, doesn’t it?”

And yes, George has to nod acceptance that it does.

“It took me forever to even think about telling Sarries seriously, anyway,” Owen goes on. “It’s all moved pretty quick since then, but without you I don’t know when I would’ve seriously thought about it.”

“Without me?” George asks, surprised.

“Yeah,” Owen nods. “You said, once - I was complaining about the lads talking to me about girls, wanting to yell at them that I didn’t care, that I was gay, and you said ‘why not?’ In the end I couldn’t come up with a good enough answer.”

George blinks. He doesn’t even remember that. He remembers Owen venting to him, remembers seeing that as the build up to Owen’s decision, had never factored himself in as part of that transition. “And now I’m stopping you from telling them things, no wonder your Sarries aren’t too impressed,” he jokes, looking away when his words come out more bitter than he’d intended. 

“Hey,” Owen says, serious, touching George’s cheek to make him look back. “I don’t know where you’ve got the idea that anyone’s been having a go at our relationship, but it’s not true. Sure, Jinksie’s nosy, the lads want to meet you, but Maro’s right - they get it, they don’t actually want to push. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you they’d mostly figured that out; I didn’t want you to worry.”

“It’s okay,” George shrugs it off. “It’s just - Jamie was right, wasn’t he? You thought you were done hiding then along I come, ruin it as quick as it starts. Like last time, like your dad said.”

“We talked about that,” Owen insists. “We agreed back then, it was fine, and you’re not ruining anything now. I wanted to tell them I’m gay, I did that, and I can tell them all about the guy I’m dating too. I don’t know what you think you’re forcing me to hide, but you’re not. And you’re never ruin anything, not for me - you couldn’t,” Owen finishes, intense.

George softens a little at that. “Well you still can’t tell them _all_ about me,” he points out.

“No, but - I don’t know that I want to,” Owen tells him. “I don’t want the whole rugby world gossiping about us any more than you do. I know we didn’t really talk about it but I thought that was a joint decision, yeah?”

“Yeah, I guess,” George accepts, grudging. They really hadn’t talked about it, and Owen had been so glad to tell the lads he was dating someone that George guesses he had just assumed. It’s hard for him to believe that Owen has chosen this when it feels so much like a contradiction of his other actions, especially with the commentary of other people ringing loud in his ears - just what George had wanted to avoid. 

“You guess?” Owen asks, raising his eyebrows. “My dad loves you now, anyway, didn’t I tell you about that?”

And yeah, Owen had told George about Andy’s glowing review during the inevitable family gossip session after George had left. It had been good to hear at the time, is good to be reminded of now.

“Yeah, you’re right,” George concedes. “I just wasn’t prepared for it, the whole conversation. The judgement - it was exactly what I wanted to avoid by having the guys not know, you know?”

“I’m sorry,” Owen offers, eyes soft. “I’m sorry it made you uncomfortable.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” George objects. “This evening was fine, with the guys not actively judging, or talking about figuring out who I was. I probably should’ve been more prepared for it, anyway.”

“It was weird for me too, at first,” Owen tells him. “First just the guys knowing I was gay, then again talking about you - without them knowing it’s you.”

“I guess it just might take a bit of getting used to,” George concludes, smiling briefly. “Like not being able to do this whenever I want,” he adds, leaning in to kiss Owen.

“Yeah,” Owen agrees as George pulls away. “Going to miss that the next few weeks,” he frowns.

George is too. There’s no way they’ll be lucky enough to room together in South Africa, not with Owen as captain. He doesn’t know when or how often they’ll manage to get private time together, but - “Hey, it’s off season after that,” George points out. It’s too soon to think about the off season, really, before they’re even in South Africa, but George must admit he’s looking forward to it already. “Weeks to ourselves, real free time.”

“Yeah,” Owen agrees, eyes going distant. “You know, Alfie told me the press staked out his home, after he came out - I don’t really think they’ll do that now,” he assures George, as George feels his eyebrows raise sharply. “But it sounds like a good excuse not to be in it - you wouldn’t happen to have any space going spare, would you?”

“I’m sure I can make up the sofa, put you up for a bit,” George grins, teasing. He likes the thought of Owen staying at his for some of the off season, but he thinks he has a better idea in mind to start their summer off right.

Ever since Connie had referred to the South Africa tour as his and Owen’s couple’s vacation George has kept coming back to the thought. South Africa was never going to be that, George had known that even before the awkwardness of today’s interactions in front of the squad had brought it home, but the idea wouldn’t leave his mind. They’ve earnt a break, George thinks, between how tough England’s season has been and the success of Owen’s, with Owen’s coming out only adding to that. George won’t mention anything yet, thinks he wants to save it for when he has an idea properly solidified, something to surprise Owen with. He doesn’t think that will take too much longer - he just hopes Owen likes his plan as much as he is starting to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this chapter has taken so long! I've been unwell and didn't want to force myself to rush a couple of chapters in a row by uploading midweek ~~and also I've been kind of stressing over doing SA enough justice~~ \- but we're finally here! I hope you guys enjoyed, and I'll see you all next Sunday - the next chapter is already half written, so that's a promise!
> 
> As part of my apology please accept a link to my favourite video in the world, the video Elliot references in this chapter, an event that I already referenced the chapter before: [Owen doing karaoke on the Sarries team bus.](https://fordfarrell.tumblr.com/post/174279791344)


	16. Chapter 16

Before George knows it he’s in South Africa, finally making it off the airplane into fresh air, only to be back enclosed in a coach within the hour. The week at Pennyhill had flown by, the coaches taking advantage of the match free week to work the players even harder than usual. George spent half the week in a blur of exhaustion, but gradually less of it on edge. Having Owen back in camp had initially made George more tense - neither of them could tell how much touching was acceptable within a group of tactile rugby players, or how much time they should spend together. They’d started out erring strongly on the side of separation and distance, going against all of George’s newly formed instincts and less new desires. 

As the week had gone on the two of them had started to settle into their newest normal, spending more time together without worrying about it overmuch - they always had in the past, after all. They still have no instinctive grasp of a reasonable line, however, for either touching or time spent together - either one of them will still occasionally retreat, worried about how they’re coming across. It’s not the most relaxing of experiences, and that’s not even considering the amount of time fellow players have spent asking Owen about his mysterious boyfriend, never dreaming that he was sat right there. George isn’t sure why he hadn’t expected this from the group of gossipers disguised as rugby players that he’s part of, really. But it’s has been getting easier, every time, to not tense up when he’s mentioned. 

It’s getting easier, too, not to touch Owen, and George is less sure how he feels about that. With training so intense he and Owen have barely spent any time alone together, normally too tired by the time it’s acceptable to retire to want to. They’ve been more likely to spend their evenings with the squad, normally sitting separated by other people, unable to talk freely, unable to touch. George has found it weirdly harder than being separated by distance, having Owen so close but not being able to relax with him. By Thursday George had considered suggesting the two of them get early starts, have breakfast together while most of the lads are still asleep, but he’d not even bothered after realising that that would just place them under the watchful eyes of the coaches. George had known, he’d always known, that this wouldn’t be the couple’s holiday Connie had joked about, but he hadn’t expected quite this much distance between them.

George pinches the bridge of his nose as the bus pulls up to England’s Durban hotel, hoping it might wake him up a bit. Ben is buzzing out of his skin next to him, gaping with Mike across the aisle at the beautiful scenery, the luxury of the hotel. All George wants is to get inside it and sleep. He knows he can’t, knows he has to stay awake to beat the travel induced jet lag, but he’s tired enough that he’s just about convinced himself that a quick power nap won’t hurt things. 

George winces as he steps out of the bus into the bright sunshine outside the hotel. It’s mid afternoon in South Africa, mid afternoon at home too, but in George’s body it feel more like 2 am. Normally by 2 am George has had more sleep than he managed on the plane. He’s so blurry with exhaustion he doesn’t even notice Owen sidling up to him until he speaks.

“Alright?” Owen asks, voice low.

George jumps, using energy he didn’t know he had.

“Tired,” he admits, swaying in to rest his head on Owen’s solid shoulder where he’s leaning close. It’s an instinctive move, one he draws back from the moment he realises that it’s probably not an acceptable touch, even among rugby players. As much as keeping his distance from Owen has become easier it’s still not always automatic, still a learning curve of what they can and can’t do in public. “Can I sleep yet?” he whines.

“Aww, is Fordy tired? Poor baby,” Elliot mocks. 

George flinches again, into Owen this time - he hadn’t noticed Elliot drifting closer either. He really is out of it.

“Your little nap on the coach leave you feeling refreshed did it?” Owen asks. “I guess we’ll see who’s suffering more tomorrow morning, hm?”

George smiles at Owen briefly, grateful to not have to come up with a response himself.

George leans back against the bus, closing his eyes, letting Owen and Elliot carry on a conversation in front of him as he absorbs the pale warmth of the winter sun. Who knows, it might give him some more energy. The bus is being unloaded behind George and he’s has never been more grateful for the accommodation awarded to the England players, the fact that he won’t have to carry his own bags in this tired, fuzzy state. George is drifting on the conversation, listening to the rhythm of Owen’s voice and the hum of conversations from his surroundings more than to the words. 

“Hey,” Owen says, gentle. It takes George a second to realise that the voice is angled towards him, this time. “Georgie,” Owen tries again, touching George lightly on the shoulder while George is just at the end of processing that fact.

“Yeah?” George opens his eyes, blinking a few times to adjust to the light. Owen is so near to him and George _wants_ \- but Elliot is just as near. He’ll just have to wait, until - well, who knows? With the two of them back to sharing rooms it’s impossible to say when they’ll next get private time together.

“Keys are here,” Owen prompts, gesturing to where the coaches are heading back out of the hotel lobby.

George nods acknowledgement, pushing off the bus behind him and heading towards the loose circle of players that has already formed. He barely listens to the rundown of the schedule for the rest of the day - a gym session then dinner, not exactly something that needs careful memorisation - instead wondering who he’ll be sharing a room with on this tour. A youngster, maybe? He wouldn’t mind Tom Curry. George waits as Ben, Maro, Tom and Joe all go - all guys George would have been glad to share with. He’s amused and a little relieved when Jamie and Elliot enthusiastically celebrate their shared room allocation - much as he likes the two of them their energy can get exhausting very quickly. 

“Fordy,” Eddie calls, before George can start to consider his remaining options. “And Faz,” he finishes. George blinks at Eddie for a moment, leaving Owen to collect both their keycards when he moves first. 

He can’t quite believe it.

George had been dreading losing the freedom of their individual rooms at Pennyhill, knowing that on a long tour like this the captain gets his own room very rarely, normally bunks with one of the newest players. He hadn’t been expecting to be granted an entire month of shared rooms, of essentially living together. It’ll be the most time they’ve spent together since they _got_ together. George isn’t quite sure he’s not still leane up against the bus, dreaming, though he feels much less sleepy now.

“C’mon,” Owen beckons with a tilt of his head as he walks back past George. George shakes himself, looking away from where Eddie is blandly moving on. They fall into step, walking to the hotel in silence. George can see Owen in his peripheral vision when they get in the empty lift together, see him looking at George, but deliberately doesn’t return his gaze. Their thoughts on their room assignment can wait until they’re safely inside it - George has no idea what he’s going to say yet, anyway.

Their room is a fair distance from the lift, down a typical series of twisting corridors. They don’t make eye contact on the walk, Owen only glancing back at George briefly as he lets them into the room. George feels the baffled smile he’s been nursing break through as Owen steps into the room, their room, George close on his heels. As the door swings shut behind them George notices that their bags have made it to the room ahead of them, that they have a view over the sea. Then the door shuts, and he turns to Owen.

George is still smiling, a little, just the corners of his mouth quirked up now. Owen looks as baffled as George feels, shrugs at George expansively as they share a moment of silent eye contact.

“So... which bed d’you want?” Owen asks.

George manages to keep a straight face, keep their eye contact, for all of a second. Then he’s creasing into slightly hysterical giggles, Owen stumbling forwards to hold him up, impeded by the beginnings of his own laughter. They’re doubled over together in seconds, hanging onto each other for whatever shaky support they can give. They’re all over each other and George doesn’t have to think about it for a second.

“Shall we take the one away from the window?” George suggests, when their laughter has calmed into something more intermittent.

“Works for me,” Owen agrees, shrugging again. 

George can feel the movement of the shrug under his hands - because he’s touching Owen again, he’s allowed to touch in this place they’ve been gifted. George feels the grin breaking through again. “C’mere,” he suggests, gripping Owen’s elbow and pulling him in when Owen goes to move away.

“Yeah?” Owen replies, turning into George’s arms, leaning in for the kiss before George can initiate.

George hums, settling his hands on Owen’s hips. “I can’t believe this,” he says, shaking his head. “I can’t believe we’ve got this.”

“Yeah,” Owen agrees, smiling. He leans in for a slow kiss. “Wonder what Eddie’d think if he knew what his homophobia was really doing?” he asks, with that suggestive smug smile George loves so much.

George pulls a face, uncomfortable. “I’m sure he isn’t -” George begins, trying to reassure Owen.

“No, I know,” Owen agrees, swiftly stepping out of George’s hold and picking his bags up. “I know he probably doesn’t _really_ think I’d perve on one of the new boys,” Owen sounds bitter, swinging his bags onto their spare bed hastily.

“Of course he doesn’t,” George dismisses, a little shocked Owen has leapt that far - then he looks at the defensive hunch of Owen’s shoulders where he’s starting to unpack his bag, now turned away from George. George’s first attempt at reassurance seems to have had the opposite effect, so he takes a moment to think rather than barrel on.

Sure, it’s a leap, but not an unreasonable one. Standard form is that the captain will room with one of the new boys - Owen isn’t getting that duty. Instead, he’s being tucked away with the only other guy on tour who shares his attraction to men. George can’t help but be happy about that, given the situation, but that doesn’t mean Owen isn’t right. Whatever the specifics of the decision the root of it seems likely to lie in their sexualities, given that this has become a pattern since they told Eddie. And what’s at the heart of that? Even the idea that the other guys could be uncomfortable, or just a vague concept that either of them rooming with a straight teammate is inappropriate - it all comes down to the idea of their sexualities, of _them_ , as predatory at its heart.

Still - “There’s no way Eddie thought that, not consciously,” George shakes his head. Eddie had been so good when they came out to him, George won’t believe it, doesn’t want to. “He probably just thought it was easier, never worked it through to realise why. But - yeah, it’s messed up, Owen.” George crosses to Owen, puts a hand on his arm as Owen turns towards him, looking a mix of surprised and relieved. “If you want to talk to him about it, or to someone else - we can do that.”

“No,” Owen dismisses easily, shaking his head. “I mean, it’s not like I exactly mind rooming with you,” he points out, shooting a small smile at George. “It just - it looks bad, especially to the new guys.”

“Well they might not know how -” George cuts himself off as Owen raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Okay, so they definitely know how we normally do things.”

“It looks like Eddie doesn’t trust me,” Owen shakes his head, sinking onto the edge of the bed. “And everyone knows I’m second choice to Dylan anyway.”

“Hey,” George sits next to Owen and squeezes his arm, waits until Owen is looking at him to go on. “You’re a great captain, Owen,” George tells him, intent. “These lads respect you already - how could they not? Those of us who’ve played with you before know how you play for us, how hard you train for us, and the new boys saw it last week. They know how hard you work and there’s no one who can or would doubt your position as captain, knowing that.”

“You can’t promise that,” Owen tells George, ducking his head - but not quickly enough to hide the small smile that means George has got through.

“Doesn’t make it less true,” George says lightly. “And they don’t know I’m bi, anyway - well, apart from maybe Ellis. But they’re not going to think it’s about you being gay, because you’re still rooming with someone, and they think I’m straight,” George points out, sees in Owen’s reaction that he hadn’t put that together. “And Eddie’d be horrified to hear you’re seeing it like this, I really think that. Maybe I’m wrong, whatever, but if you want to talk to him, or another one of the coaches - you know I’ll back you up. If you want me to do it on your behalf, even, or pretending you don’t know - whatever you want.”

Owen considers this for a moment, then shakes his head. “Maybe after the tour,” he says. “I might talk to Alfie, or maybe I will say something if there’s a good moment, but - I mean, I don’t exactly want to take the chance that he’ll split us up,” Owen smiles at George lavisciously, deliberately overdone. “But hey - he’s doing it to you too, so if _you_ want to talk to him...?” Owen offers suddenly.

George just shakes his head. He doesn’t have the role like Owen, the responsibility to feel robbed of. “Don’t want to risk them moving us apart,” he agrees, leaning in to Owen to brush their shoulders together. “Hey - we’ve got that couple’s holiday after all!” George realises.

Owen tilts his head in confusion. “You calling this a holiday?” he asks.

“It’s something Connie said,” George tells Owen, realising he hasn’t mentioned it before. “When she found out about us, said this tour was practically England funding our romantic holiday.”

Owen laughs. “Bit more work than that,” he comments.

“That’s what I said!” George exclaims. “But that was before I knew they’d put us up in this lovely hotel together.”

Owen hums. “It is good of them, really,” he says teasingly, leaning in for a kiss.

“Actually -” George begins, leaning away. “How long have we got until that gym session?”

Owen checks his watch. “Like twenty minutes,” he tells George, looking confused again.

“Right,” George says, standing to get his laptop out of his bag. He’s got everything put together now, this is probably the best time to tell Owen about his idea. “Well, what Connie said got me thinking. And you might be sick of me at the end of all this, so think about it properly, yeah, you don’t have to answer today,” George warns, starting up the laptop and sitting down next to Owen again.

“Okay, “ Owen says cautiously as George finds the appropriate folder, clicks to open it.

“Someone from Tigers - well. Okay, it doesn’t matter,” George dismisses the explanation before he can get weighed down in it. “There’s this little house - villa, I guess - in Northern Italy, by the sea. It’s proper isolated, got a pool, private beach, the works.” George turns the screen so Owen can see the pictures for himself. “If you wanted an actual holiday - it’s ours, for two weeks after the tour finishes. 

“Or it can be, I guess,” George feels himself starting to ramble again as Owen just looks through the pictures in silence. “Or we could just do one week, or a few days, or if you’ve got other plans -” George knows Owen doesn’t “- that’s fine. It’s just if you wanted. I haven’t booked it yet or anything, but it won’t go to anyone else without us getting a chance. There’s a flight from Heathrow that we could get on literally a few hours after we come back, or a flight the next day, whenever works. I found a car hire place, just checking out the prices,” George says when Owen clicks forwards onto those screenshots. “But like I said, nothing’s booked. Just if you wanted to,” George finally manages to shut himself up, biting his lip.

“George,” Owen says into the silence. He turns himself further into George so that their knees are brushing, but doesn’t look away from the screen.

“Yeah?” George replies when Owen is quiet a few more moments, biting his lip again as soon as the word is out. Owen clicks back through to the first pictures of the house. 

“I’d love to,” Owen tells George, finally looking up from the screen to meet his anxious gaze. “It looks - perfect.”

George grins widely, relieved. “I figured we deserve it - or we will,” he says, shrugging as casually as he’s able. He slumps with the release of nervous tension, allows his shoulder to brush Owen’s. 

“Yeah,” Owen agrees, looking back to the screen once more. “It looks gorgeous,” he says quietly.

“And it’s the only house for - I think it was 3 miles? Totally private beach, not that big, but no one else can even get to it. There’s a fence around the whole place, see,” George points to the line on the picture. 

“Just for us,” Owen says, eyes still fixed to the screen. George remembers when he’d first seen the pictures, just been drinking in the photographed sunshine and open space, the peace promised there. “No England squad around, no one else to worry about - just us.”

“Yeah,” George agrees. He hopes Owen’s dwelling means he likes the idea as much as George had.

“It - oh, come here,” Owen says, apparently giving up on words as he pulls George into a fierce kiss by the nape of his neck.

“It’s perfect,” Owen repeats, when he’s kissed George well enough to half melt him into a puddle.

“Uh huh,” George agrees, licking his lips.

“Book it now,” Owen urges, eager. “We’ll go straight from Heathrow, we can buy anything we need there, fuck it.”

“I can book it later,” George dismisses, leaning in to Owen’s space. 

“You’re right,” Owen says, leaning away, glancing at his watch. “It’s time for that gym session now,” he pulls a regretful face.

“Not exactly what I had in mind,” George grumbles - but he can’t complain when Owen stands, stripping off his shirt and moving to his kitbag.

“No,” Owen agrees. “But - that’s definitely a yes, to the holiday, George,” Owen looks back at George from where he’s crouched by his bag. “It really does look perfect,” he says, still holding eye contact, sincere.

George nods, a little flustered by Owen’s intensity, looking away from his gaze to his arms. George takes the moment to admire the shift of muscles as Owen digs through his provided England kit bag for something to wear, biting his lip.

“Oi,” Owen calls, catching George in the act. He straightens up quickly and lobs George’s own kit at his chest. “This isn’t a free show, get a move on - we’ll be late.”

“Yes, captain,” George grumbles, standing. He gets immediately distracted from opening his own kitbag by the way Owen stretches putting his own shirt on.

“Still not a free show,” Owen scolds, like George can’t see the satisfaction in the curve of his lips.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m fully intending to pay up later,” George returns, intent clear in his voice as he finally does pull out his own training gear. He’d been tired earlier, sure, but the room allocation had more than woken him up. The gym session will likely tire him out again, but George reckons he’s got more than enough motivation to still deliver.

“Oh yeah?” Owen says lightly, turning away to find shorts. 

“Yeah,” George agrees, stripping his shirt and shorts together. He waits to speak until Owen looks back, the speed at which Owen does so cracking his nonchalant facade. George takes that moment to stretch up and pull his shirt on, a more deliberate version of the motion he’d been admiring from Owen. “We’ve got time, after all,” George tells him, offhand. “All the time in the world, and the privacy too. I’ll give you whatever you want. Eventually,” he adds with a smirk, enjoying the way Owen hasn’t been able to look away.

“Fuck,” Owen says, heartfelt. “I hate you, we have to train.”

“Yup,” George agrees, angling himself away from Owen to pull on his shorts with more bending than is strictly necessary. “Not a free show,” George sends Owen’s words back at him when he straightens up, not even looking to check that Owen had been checking him out. He knows how Owen feels about his arse, his thighs.

“Stop teasing then,” Owen replies, swarming up behind George.

“Don’t know what you mean,” George says, innocent, turning back to Owen, their chests brushing as he does so.

“Sure,” Owen agrees sarcastically.

“Come on, captain, it’s training time,” George pats Owen on the arm dismissively, trailing his fingers a little more slowly than necessary across Owen’s bicep.

“Straight back here after though,” Owen asks, catching George’s hand to stop him moving away.

“Hmm,” George feigns consideration. “No,” he smiles sunnily. “After tea, yes. I meant what I said about time,” he tells Owen, enjoying the speed at which his disappointment turns to desire.

“Works for me,” Owen agrees readily. “Looking forward to it,” he adds.

“Me too,” George agrees. “Me too.”

~~~

It’s a good day for golf, though not as warm as George might have hoped. He is a bit jealous of Owen’s warm jumper - Owen being one of the few of the squad to manage to remember it was actually winter in the Southern hemisphere. Brad Shields, unsurprisingly, had been another. George isn’t sure if he’s glad for Brad that he’s coming in on a quiet training day, getting an activity like this to start bonding with the team, or if it’s ultimately more stressful that just jumping straight into training would have been.

“How are we doing this then, captain?” Jamie asks Owen cheerfully.

“Uh, however you like?” Owen replies. 

“But you’re the _captain_ ,” Elliot says earnestly. “We await your instructions.”

“I’m sure we can manage to split into pairs without needing someone to assign them,” Owen points out.

“Everyone who’s sharing a room go together?” Elliot suggests.

“So much for awaiting instructions,” George says wryly.

“I just like there to be structure,” Elliot defends himself. “Besides, Jamie pointed out last night - bunking system this tour seems to be worked out on who you get along with best, it’s probably going to happen anyway.”

George snorts involuntarily, relieved when it’s quiet. He hadn’t even noticed that. Neither had Owen, George can tell from a glance at his sheepish face. It’s true, though, George realises as he waits for those without their roommate to pair up. He and Owen, Jamie and Elliot - it does go along friendship lines. George still isn’t convinced that was Eddie’s primary motivation for putting him and Owen together - he rather suspects the system had followed on - but it’s at least a cover that makes it look better, for Owen. And George still isn’t going to complain about rooming with his boyfriend, no matter how suspicious the motives for the pairing.

“Does your boyfriend golf?” Jamie asks Owen while they wait for the others to pair up, tearing him away from keeping a not-so-subtle eye on Brad.

George takes over the duty, sees the way Brad looks up at the question, frowning slightly. George had barely even thought that he didn’t know about Owen’s sexuality, the fact somehow slipping his mind with all the other new boys knowing. George puts it straight out of his mind again, focussing instead on being glad to see Dan Robson heading over to pair up with Brad - another Wasp, an extra bonus for Brad in terms of getting settled in. Chris might have been better, an old England stalwart and fellow forward besides, but George is just glad there was no awkward moment.

“Yeah,” Owen tells Jamie.

“Is he good?” Jamie follows up.

“He’s pretty decent,” Owen shrugs.

“Is he better or worse than you?” Elliot asks.

Owen shrugs, glancing at George quickly. “About the same?” he hazards. 

George thinks that’s about right.

“He’s terrible, then?” Jamie ribs.

“We’ll see what you’ve got to say at the end of the round, huh?” Owen retorts.

“Oooh, defensive,” Elliot calls. “Protective boyfriend over here, we’ll bear that in mind.”

“As if that’d ever stop you guys,” George scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“Who said anything about it stopping us?” Elliot points out. “Maybe we just want to remember how to wind our captain up.”

“Should’ve known,” George concedes, nodding ruefully.

“Oi, you start insulting my boyfriend on a regular basis and it’ll quickly stop being fun for you,” Owen threatens.

“Oooh, he _is_ protective!” Elliot crows. “Aww.”

Owen just pointedly ignores that, while George tries to hide a smile besides him. George is still aware of Brad, now chatting amicably with Dan, still glancing over at their conversation every now and again.

With everyone paired up they decide on their starting tees, start splitting up to walk to them. Owen and George find themselves in step with Brad and Dan for part of the way. George smiles at Brad, friendly, but finds himself lacking anything to say to start conversation.

“So - your boyfriend golfs?” Brad asks Owen, taking care of that aspect.

George immediately falls back into his Six Nations role of watching, seeing the caution in Brad’s delivery - he’s not quite sure what to make of the earlier conversation, George supposes.

“Yep,” Owen confirms with a bland smile.

“Didn’t know you were dating anyone,” Dan puts in, looking nearly as cautious.

“Yeah, it’s been a few months now,” Owen shrugs.

“Still early days, then,” Brad suggests.

Owen shakes his head, smiling warmly. “Doesn’t feel it,” he tells him.

George has to fight down his own smile.

“I didn’t know -” Brad begins, lets himself trail off.

“That I was gay?” Owen provides.

“Yeah,” Brad agrees. 

“Now you do, I guess,” Owen shrugs.

Brad nods acceptance. George watches as Brad’s shoulders relax, presumably glad to have that cleared up and not be slapped down for asking. He’s aware of Owen relaxing the same, likely glad that no big deal has been made of it.

“You’re not big enough news to have made it to New Zealand in half a season, Faz,” George teases, realising Dan is hardly the support he’d had from the Saracens - he’s almost as unfamiliar with acknowledging the idea as Brad is. If someone is going to keep conversation going, stop it from being awkward, it’s going to have to be him.

“Funny that, given how quickly it got around the Premiership,” Owen muses sarcastically.

George grunts agreement, irritated afresh at the memory. 

“And to Ireland,” Owen adds after a moment’s quiet.

“Alright alright, you’re famous enough to gossip about, jeez!” George exclaims. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Yeah, actually,” Owen grins, showing teeth. “I always want people talking about me, it’s my favourite thing,” he goes on, sarcasm heavy as both Brad and Dan laugh.

George laughs too, shaking his head. “Well you’ll be seeing more of that soon enough, I don’t think you need to worry,” he points out as they approach Dan and Brad’s tee.

Owen pulls a face at George before they bid Dan and Brad goodbye and good luck - though not too much luck - and head towards their own tee in peace.

~~~

George hates media days. He doesn’t mind the odd interview, accepts it as part of the job, and the stuff they do for social media George often quite enjoys. But half a day of media, and photos, and then some more pictures, and just a couple more quick questions - it’s too much. He’s on edge after the first round of photos, awkward when he and Owen are posed together, tensing to avoid any possibility of leaning into Owen the way he normally wants to when Owen puts his arm around him. Irritable already, George has to stamp down on some of his instinctive replies to the thinly veiled inquiries as to the security of his position, whether or not he thinks it’s brave of Eddie to still be starting him, still be trusting him, in the face of all calls for him to do otherwise.

It doesn’t help that Danny Cipriani himself is stood barely two meters away, having his own photos taken. George has stopped noticing Danny’s eyes on him since everyone had piled back into camp, had chosen to assume that Danny had stopped watching him with more interesting people around. The way his skin crawls with awareness of being watched through every second of his interview makes him wonder if he hasn’t just been missing it, however. Sure, maybe George is the only form of entertainment Danny has right then, maybe it’s understandable, but that doesn’t make it any more comfortable. 

George has been getting used to hearing more from Cipriani as he settles in to this England squad, quickly and loudly making friends with Jason, his future teammate, and reconnecting with the guys who used to share the England squad with him. What had felt like the respite of Pennyhill, where George had hardly seen Danny, seems to be over as he is once again everywhere George looks. George had called it an early night last night - excessively so, him and Owen holing up in their room to share a long evening to themselves - and Cipriani had caught his eye as he glanced over the room on his way out. Because he’d been watching George, George realises now. From the midst of a laughing group of teammates, Danny had still been watching him. 

George tries to shake himself as the first interview ends, focus on Owen a little way down the boardwalk as he stands to pose for more pictures, but he still feels Cipriani’s eyes on him. He lets himself look, just once, to check that it’s not paranoia, but no - Danny is watching him, again. He looks away quickly, and back to his interviewer, but George isn’t going mad. 

George doesn’t look back at Danny through the media session, through the day, even. He moves on in the gym when Danny works his way near, even leaves the after dinner chat he’d been having with Jonny, Joe, Elliot and Jamie when Danny comes to sit with his former teammates. George knows he’s being ridiculous, tells himself so as he heads over to a Saracens heavy group, helmed by Owen and Maro. He greets them all cheerily but sits quiet through a discussion of South African rugby. 

George didn’t need to leave a conversation just because Cipriani had arrived at it - Danny hasn’t actually said anything to him, not anything bad. But with the first test approaching George can feel himself winding tight with nerves. He knows Danny wants his spot, wants his jersey. He already knows that Danny is there, every step of the way, ready to be there the second George stumbles - does Danny really have to work so hard to keep him aware of it? George _had_ had to leave, before he asked Danny about it, asked Danny to _stop_ , and then his paranoia would be plain for everyone to see. If George can act unbothered, be friendly - and he had, he had managed that, had managed to escape to Owen perfectly politely - then his teammates won’t think he’s worried. If anyone gets an idea of how loose George fears his hold on the 10 jersey is then it’ll become even looser, give the guys grounds to question him and doubt his choices. That can’t happen on the pitch.

George is torn from his musing by Owen standing, catching the movement in his peripheral vision. He looks up to find Owen looking back - and that’s a much more pleasant gaze.

“C’mon, Fordy, didn’t you want to speak to my dad?” Owen says, seeing he has George’s attention.

“Oh yeah,” George agrees, despite the fact he’s said nothing of the sort. He follows Owen out of the room, wondering idly what excuse Owen had given for their early night last night if it’s his family tonight. George glances over the room as they leave, noting the amount of guys who have left before them - a fair number, no need for an excuse, really. He catches Cipriani’s eye, _again_ , resists the urge to immediately look away and instead nods in acknowledgement. Danny barely nods back, the slightest raise of his chin before he looks back to the group George had left him in. George shakes his head as he exits the room - weird.

“You alright?” Owen asks, once they’re safely inside their room.

“Yeah?” George responds, answering Owen’s question with a question.

“You were pretty quiet,” Owen pushes.

George shrugs. “Media day,” he dismisses, pulling out his phone and sitting onto their bed. It’s pristine, as is the second bed next to it - they’d left them both mussed this morning, have made an effort to do so every day.

“Done all your talking?” Owen jokes, sitting on the other bed opposite George.

“Yeah,” George shrugs, again, aware it’s becoming bad tempered.

Owen sighs, and George looks up from his phone to find Owen frowning at him. “I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong,” he says simply.

George looks at Owen, bites his lip. He’s being ridiculous, he knows it, isn’t sure he needs Owen telling him that too.

“Well, I’m having a shower,” Owen claps his hands on his thighs and stands when George fails to reply.

“Alone?” George asks, raising an eyebrow. Getting lost in hot water, steam, and Owen sounds far more appealing than having a conversation about what’s bothering him.

“That’s up to you,” Owen tells him, smiling lopsided before pulling off his shirt and dropping it on the spare bed. 

Owen puts a hand on George’s shoulder, leans in to press a quick kiss to the top of his head before walking to the bathroom. He lingers just a moment in the doorway, lets George see him push the edge of his waistband down before disappearing from dight. George bites his lip, shaking his head at the unnecessary display as he pushes himself up to follow Owen. As if there had ever been a choice to make.

~~~

George feels better, after, clean and warm. He and Owen are now dressed only in the loose team training gear that serves as pajamas, nestled into bed. Owen actually is video calling with his parents, just a brief chat about the confirmed selection. George adds his thoughts a couple of times but mostly leaves Owen to it, scrolling through social media and reconnecting with his own family. 

“Still quiet,” Owen points out after he’s hung up.

George shrugs, then shifts closer to Owen’s side. He’d wanted to give Owen space while he was calling his parents, hadn’t wanted to be on screen the whole time. Now he lets himself burrow into Owen warmth, smiling when Owen readily, automatically, puts an arm around his shoulders to welcome him in. “I’m okay,” he dismisses. He hadn’t been dwelling, not this time.

Owen pulls back slightly to study George’s face. “You are now,” he accepts.

“It’s stupid,” George sighs.

“I don’t care,” Owen says, then pauses. “Wait, I mean -” he cuts himself off as George just laughs.

“I know what you mean,” George tells him, relaxing even further into Owen as he starts rubbing his thumb in small circles on George’s shoulder.

“So?” Owen prompts.

“It’s Danny,” George finally spits out. “Cipriani.”

Owen doesn’t respond, just watches George, waiting for more.

“He’s watching me,” George says, feels how pathetic it is as he does so. “Every time I look up, he’s there, watching me in the gym, watching me do interviews, and it’s just - I know he’s there, you know? I know that anyway, I couldn’t exactly forget it, why does he always have to be _watching_ me?” 

Owen is still quiet, like he’s expecting more.

“It’s stupid,” George says, lamely, to make it clear he’s finished.

Owen looks at George consideringly. “I get that you’re nervous about the weekend,” he says eventually, gently.

“That’s not -” George cuts in before Owen can finish what sounds like a dismissal. “I mean, okay, yes, of course it’s part of it. Of course I’m nervous, about the weekend, and my place, and the whole tour - aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Owen admits - and George sees it, all of a sudden, sees the way Owen’s eyebrows furrow and his jaw tenses, sees the way it vanishes the next second. George had thought Owen had been dealing with the pressure of being captain really well, but there it is, surfacing for just a moment, the stress George had expected.

“Okay, we’re coming back to that,” George warns. “But that’s not it, I swear. I’m not entirely comfortable with him, I can admit that - and maybe that is part of it all, but it’s not just that. He _is_ watching me, and it _is_ weird.”

“He’s probably just watching how you do things, looking for how to get better,” Owen tries. He doesn’t seem exactly convinced by what George has said, but he’s also clearly no longer willing to dismiss his words. “I’ll keep an eye out, yeah, but it doesn’t matter what he’s doing. You’ve got the 10 jersey, it’s on your back, and you’re going to be the one to keep it. He can watch you as much as he likes, it’s not going to change how you both play.”

George doesn’t much care _why_ Danny is watching him, just wants him to stop - but he’s vented, now. Whether or not Owen had seemed overly convinced George feels a little better to have said something, and the clear faith in Owen’s claim that George would be the one keeping the starting spot has helped too. George lets it go, in favour of focussing back on the first open sign of nerves Owen has shown all tour.

“Hey - how’re you doing, captain?” George asks, a gentle nudge at what he suspects is Owen’s issue. “Talk to me?” George tries, when Owen doesn’t reply. 

George had hoped that just taking the evening for themselves last night, being there for Owen without words, would have been distraction enough to help. What Owen had briefly shown though, what he had immediately shut down, shows there’s still nerves to be worked on. A certain degree of tension is natural, almost necessary - they’ve dealt with that their whole careers and know it well by now. Owen closing it off like he had is more what worries George.

“I’m your captain, babe,” Owen dismisses with a wry grin, shaking his head. “Pretty sure I’m not meant to be venting to you.”

“You’re my boyfriend, love,” George replies, deliberately mirroring Owen’s use of an endearment. “Pretty sure that’s my job.”

Owen shrugs, neither giving in nor moving away.

“What, d’you think I’m going to respect you less, listen to you less as a captain if you talk to me?” George scorns. “Nothing you say could make me lose confidence in you,” he promises. “And I think we’ve kinda blown the typical player-captain role out of the water already, huh? So talk to me.”

Owen shrugs again, the long breath he releases this time letting George know he’s giving in. “I just really, really want this win, you know?”

“I know,” George agrees.

“And we need it,” Owen goes on, starting to talk faster now. “As a team, as a squad, we’ve only come to _South Africa_ , where we’re never won a series, _needing_ the wins. I don’t want to fuck it up,” he admits.

George sits forwards, out from under Owen’s arm. He turns to face Owen, crossing a leg under himself so he can do so more comfortably. “You won’t,” George says, glad when his voice sounds sure as he feels, his own nerves about the matches not filtering through. However confident he feels about the matches themselves Owen’s leadership, Owen’s ability, is not something he has doubt in. “Even if we do lose, it won’t be on you messing up. You know that,” he reminds Owen. “This is a team sport, you can’t win for all of us and you can’t lose for all of us, either. And you won’t mess it up. There’s a reason you’re the lynchpin of this side, a reason you were chosen captain - we know we can rely on you.”

Owen lets out a long breath, nodding just slightly. He doesn’t seem entirely convinced, and George isn’t sure telling Owen he’s the key was quite the approach he should have taken, but it’s true. Owen is someone they can rely on, and he works too hard for George to be able to see that changing.

“It’s - the off pitch stuff, really,” Owen admits. 

“What I said about relying on you goes for both, you know,” George tells Owen, glad he’s opening up. “I’ve seen you with the newer guys, with Brad - you’re doing a great job settling them in. And you know you can talk to me, or Chris or Mike, whoever, if there’s anything going on - especially for the guys from the Argentina tour. You don’t have to do it all yourself, yeah?” he says pointedly, tapping at where he thinks Owen’s knee is under the covers, leaving his hand there. “You’ve been the other side with Dylan - you can talk to us the way he would’ve talked to you. You’ve lead us before - turning to us isn’t going to make us doubt you.”

“Didn’t go so well last time though, did it?” Owen replies, hurried and sharp.

So that’s it, George realises, watching the way Owen turns his head to the side, dips his gaze. It’s coming back to Owen’s last time captaining, to their loss against France. “That wasn’t on you,” he promises. He’d thought they’d gone over that at the time. “That was a mess, from everyone, and you nearly brought us back into it. It wasn’t your fault,” he insists, sliding his hand further up Owen’s leg and squeezing his thigh for emphasis.

“I could’ve played better,” Owen says, head still ducked.

“Everyone could’ve,” George replies, ruthless. “You can’t be perfect every game, no one can, it’s not possible. No one expects you to be perfect - you’ll do the best you can on the day, and whatever that is is more than enough. You put in too much in training for it to be anything else. I know that, Eddie knows that - you should too.”

~~~

Captain’s run is one of George’s favourite days in a match week - he enjoys the set routine, knowing exactly what it is he’s meant to be doing and when, loves the energy of the lads. The run before Bloemfontein is no exception to that rule. The squad spend half the day travelling, all pent up together and getting steadily more and more raucous. It’s normally the kind of atmosphere George hates, but today the excitement in himself is mirroring that of the boys, not transforming into anxiety.

The sense of release when they get out on the field is palpable, the backs throwing themselves into their exercises with enthusiasm and the loud grunts coming from the forwards indicating that they’re doing the same. George grins his way through passes, through mock tackles, through line breaks. It feels right, to be running out on a proper pitch again, dressed in white, Owen beside him. Even kicking practice, sometimes overly repetitive, is exhilarating with the ball flying through the lesser resistance of the high altitude. It’s something they need to get a handle on, so after Owen has delivered his end of session speech - just as motivating as George knew it would be - the backs linger for some additional kicking.

They start with a distance competition, but as fun as kicking that far is there’s not much joy in a game Elliot’s going to win 95% of the time. George is still buzzing with energy, reigning in his kicks not quite sitting right. He’s restless, watching the others more than normal, watching as Owen nails a kick dead centre between the posts.

“Shot!” George calls to Owen, jogging to retrieve the ball for him as he’s so much closer. He kicks it back, weighting it carefully, grinning when he gets his own praise from Owen in return when the ball sinks perfectly into his arms. 

They kick the ball back and forth for a while longer, adjusting angle, distance, until the forwards start wandering out from the changing rooms to watch. Most of the other backs have headed in but Ben and Elliot are still kicking beside them. George isn’t ready to leave yet, wants a couple more shots at goal kicking but finds himself tied to the tryline as counterpart to Owen. George pauses, ball in hand, considering this. It’s silly for him to keep kicking with Owen if it’s not actually helping, especially with a match the next day.

“Happy?” Owen calls at George’s hesitation, asking if he’s done, and George wonders if Owen has been wasting his time, too.

George jogs back to Owen, who holds out a hand expectantly for the ball when George draws near.

“Oi, awfully entitled aren’t you?” George scolds when Owen actually goes to take the ball out his arms when George doesn’t hand it over.

“I thought you were done,” Owen says sheepishly. “And anyway, I’m your captain, mate, think that does give me some privileges.”

“Oh you do, do you?” George teases, energy still buzzing through his veins.

“Well, yeah,” Owen shrugs, expansive, exaggerated grin on his face. He’s putting that one on but George knows the true one, knows Owen when he really is that smug and pleased with himself. “So if I could just have that...,” Owen trails off, reaching out for George’s ball once again, rather than just going for any of the others scattered around the pitch.

“You want this you’re going to have to come and get it,” George tells him, backing a few steps away.

“Oh yeah?” Owen akss, sauntering ever so casually closer.

“Yeah,” George confirms, starting to turn away as he moves to maintain the distance between them.

Luckily George doesn’t turn too far, sees the movement as Owen suddenly launches towards him. George starts to run, laughing, makes it barely more than a few steps before Owen’s advanced momentum brings them crashing together with a thump.

Owen wraps his arms around George immediately, the only thing stopping George from falling over at the impact. Owen’s hands scrabble at George’s arms, making a pretty half hearted effort at ripping the ball. 

“Not getting it,” George crows, doubling over in an attempt to pull the ball out of Owen’s reach. It doesn’t work, Owen staying molded to him, laughing in George’s ear now. “Get your own,” George laughs breathlessly, trying to step away now, still finding no escape as Owen’s limpet like grip leaves the two of them staggering together, having to focus on balance rather than fight for just a moment.

“Think you’ll find I’ve got a good grip on mine already, actually,” Owen asserts once they’ve stabilised. He’s practically speaking into George’s ear, curls himself further around George as he speaks. Owen’s cheek presses into George’s neck, his chin digs into George’s shoulder, and he makes a satisfied sound as he gets his eyes on the ball, adjusts his course of attack accordingly. George has given up on wriggling away, the idea not even crossing his mind at this fresh attempt. He lets go, instead, just with one arm, uses the other to attempt to pry Owen’s hands away, fingers slipping over warm skin as Owen tries to evade him.

“Mine,” Owen mutters again, scraping his and George’s stubble together with the movement of his jaw. George’s fingers tighten on Owen’s wrist, clench.

“Alright, alright,” Ben calls from behind the pair, interrupting them. “I’m done, you can have this, break it up,” and with that a ball hits Owen soundly in the back, sending him and George stumbling another step forwards, only clinging onto each other harder as they try to keep their balance.

“Thanks for that,” George calls sarcastically, shivering a little at the rush of cold air when Owen releases him. He’s a little surprised, hadn’t thought Owen likely to give up so easily. When he turns, however, he sees Owen has moved more than a couple of paces away. He’s deliberately putting distance back between them, and now that the rush of their wrestling has passed George can acknowledge that that’s probably sensible.

“Welcome,” Ben calls back, cheerful.

Owen huffs, rolling his eyes. “C’mon Georgie,” he coaxes. “Back to business, enough messing around.”

“Messing around!” George exclaims, glad Owen hasn’t turned too cautious with his remembrance of their audience. If he’s not worrying too much then George won’t either. “And just who’s fault was that?”

Owen tries to keep it quiet but George can see his shoulders shaking, knows he’s laughing. “Don’t know what you mean,” he denies, airy, throwing a smile back over his shoulder at George.

George actually catches his breath at the sparkle in Owen’s eyes, the way their gazes catch and hold for just a moment before Owen winks and turns away.

It’s all back to business after that, wrapping kicking practice up quickly so they can all get back to the hotel. The forwards head back inside with them when they’re done, not interested in staying outside when the entertainment is over.

Maro falls into step with George as they go down the tunnel. “Glad to see you and Faz have sorted things out,” he says, quiet.

George blinks at him. “Sorted what out?” he asks.

Maro shrugs. “I don’t know,” he admits freely. “But it’s nice to see you back to normal.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” George denies, again. He really doesn’t. He and Owen are fine, have been fine, and he doesn’t know what Maro’s seen or heard to make him think otherwise.

“Just, you know, comfortable again,” Maro perseveres as they enter the changing rooms. “You were keeping your distance last week, it looked pretty bad at first. It’s good to see you guys messing around again. I’m glad you got past whatever it was.”

George doesn’t have anything to say to that, glad when Maro claps him on the shoulder and leaves him to it. Had it been that obvious? Had their discomfort with what was acceptable really come across as a falling out? And if so, have they really got past it that well? George hadn’t even thought about the way they were on the pitch, not until afterwards, and he guesses that means they have.

“Alright?” Owen checks, touching George’s elbow, presumably noticing the way George is staring into the middle distance.

“Yeah,” George dismisses, shaking his head. “Thanks, though,” he adds, shaking himself and starting to get changed.

A touch like that would have made George anxious a week ago. He’d be worrying who’d seen it, if it was normal, if it was a sign that there was something more between them. Now he thinks he’s only noticed because of what Maro just said. Part of that is probably down to their shared room - George isn’t craving Owen’s touch, anymore. He’d been hyperaware, at Pennyhill, of any moment they’d spent together, any brush of skin, because those moments in public were nearly all they’d had. Now that George gets Owen all to himself in private space at least twice a day he’s not tracking their interactions so well, doesn’t respond to each one so strongly.

The time together isn’t enough to stop them reaching for each other, however, and George does have to wonder what is says about him and Owen that the two of them wrapped around each other, wrestling for a ball, is closer to their pre-dating normal than the attempts they had made to ensure they didn’t spend every single evening together, didn’t touch casually in every conversation. Regardless of that George is going to take Maro’s words for the permission they are - permission continue to act more naturally around each other, as much as they can, as much as is reasonable. More than that Maro’s words are permission to not worry quite so much about that decision, and that’s something George is more than happy to hold on to. George still isn’t sure where the platonic behaviour line lies, but knowing wrestling falls within it is certainly going to help him relax about everything else.

~~~

It’s still mostly dark when George wakes, the rim of the curtains in his and Owen’s room spilling only the faintest edge of grey light. He checks his phone for the time, finds it is late enough to reasonably get up. He and Owen have shared one of the two beds in their new temporary hotel room, the same way they had in Durban, and George moves gingerly to avoid waking Owen as he shifts out of bed. He thinks he’s failed for a moment, Owen rolling closer in to George as he slips out from under his arm, but Owen doesn’t stir beyond that - must only have been seeking the warmth.

George heads as quietly as he can to the shower, starting his match day off with his normal routine and hoping - yet again - that he won’t disturb Owen. They’ve still got time before they need to be downstairs for breakfast, George just knows it’s best for him to get up upon waking, not sink back down into a warm bed - or in this case into Owen’s warm embrace. Tempting as it may be dozing back off always leaves him grumpy and groggy - unless Owen wakes him again with something more than kisses. It’s an exception they’ve tested, but George doesn’t think a match day is quite the time for that sort of wake up call.

Instead he lets hot water do the work, basking in the warmth and building humidity of the room. The mirror is steamed up when he gets out, unsurprising but annoying, ruining his plan of an early shave. George curses softly to himself at the realisation that he’s left his kit in the main room, wrapping a towel around his waist and opening the bathroom door as gently as he can. He relaxes when he sees that Owen’s bedside light is on, swinging the door open wide.

“Morning,” he greets, smiling at Owen as he walks to his kitbag.

“Morning,” Owen acknowledges, looking up from his phone. He’s still in bed, still on his side facing George’s side, having just replaced George’s presence with his phone.

“You want the shower?” George asks, realising he doesn’t necessarily know Owen’s current match day routine.

Owen shakes his head. “I’ll shave though, when you’re done in there,” he tells George. 

“Can’t see a damn thing in the mirror for now,” George says apologetically, dropping his towel to pull underwear on.

Owen just shrugs. “There’s time,” he says, eyes flickering casually across George’s body.

George nods in acknowledgement and continues getting dressed, settling back into his space in bed, on top of the covers, once he’s done so.

“Back to bed?” Owen asks.

George shrugs. “Always,” he replies. “Catching up on this,” he explains, picking up his phone. “And the only place to sit in a hotel room is sometimes the bed, so - routine.”

“Alright,” Owen accepts with a shrug, shifting closer so he can prop his own phone hand up on George’s thigh. “Alright?” he repeats, a question this time.

“Yeah,” George replies, reaching out to rest his free hand on Owen’s shoulder.

They scroll through social media in peace for a while, a quiet only rarely disturbed by their reactions to various posts, the occasional sharing of a particularly funny one. Eventually Owen rolls away from George, rolls out the other side of the bed.

“Going to shave,” he tells George, walking around the end of the bed to get to the bathroom.

“I was just going to do the same.” George figures he could be annoyed at having to wait for Owen, but instead he smiles at their morning routines lining up - luckily catching up online is certainly the easiest part of George’s ritual to expand. 

George reaches out an arm as Owen draws near, pleased when Owen heads towards him easily, slotting into place with George’s hand on his hip. George tilts his head up expectantly, smiling into it when Owen accepts the invitation to kiss him. Their stubble rasps together when Owen pulls away and George shivers, regretting that he’ll be losing that sensation.

George lets Owen go as easily as he’d pulled him in, tapping him on the hip to indicate that he’s finished. He’d just wanted his morning kiss, that was all. Now all he wants is to watch Owen cross the room, still dressed only in the boxers he’d slept in, watch the movement of his hips and the shift of muscle in his back as he raises a hand to rub at his hair.

“There’s room for two at the mirror,” Owen calls, bare seconds after he’s disappeared from George’s sight.

“Yeah?” George stands to follow Owen, find out for himself. Easy as it is to fill more time with social media and texts he really doesn’t need to, might as well keep his morning on track if Owen is offering.

Owen just nods his head at the space wide open next to him when George appears in the doorway. It’s more than enough space for George to fit into, so he does so, trailing a slow hand along Owen’s back, just above the line of his boxers, as he passes him. Owen looks up at the touch, making eye contact with George in the mirror and smiling. George returns the expression before reaching for his shaving foam, bumping his arm against the warm skin of Owen’s as he reaches across him.

“Sorry,” George mutters, not meaning it at all.

“Just can’t keep your hands off me,” Owen sighs, mock annoyed. George wouldn’t believe the annoyance even if he couldn’t see the way a smile was tugging at Owen’s lips beneath the shaving foam he was hiding his expression under.

“Yeah, seems like that’s something that really bothers you,” George returns, deadpan.

Owen smirks openly at that, spreading shaving foam along his jaw.

“How you feeling about today?” Owen asks.

George takes a moment to apply his own mask of shaving foam. “Okay,” he decides, talking carefully. “Bit nervous, mostly excited.” Practice has gone well, after all, and Eddie has shown faith in George after his performance against the Barbarians. He’s in a good place, thinks the squad are too. “Looking forward to getting back out there,” George concludes. “How about you, captain?”

Owen is quiet for a while - George isn’t sure if he’s avoiding the question, almost apologises for calling him captain, reminding him of that burden. But it’s what Owen is this tour, is part of what he has to deal with, part of what George is asking after. After a few moments of quiet have passed George looks away from his own partly shaved face in the mirror, turns his attention to Owen’s. His fears about Owen avoiding the question are immediately alleviated - Owen is just focussing on his current job of shaving, pretty intensely if his expression is anything to go by.

George watches as Owen negotiates tricky areas around his lips and jawline. He’s never watched anyone shave before, and it’s funnier than he might have thought. Owen’s pulling some truly ridiculous faces, and focussing on himself in the mirror far harder than the rugby community would generally let pass without mocking. George has almost forgotten that he’d started shaving himself by the time Owen looks over to him, immediately grinning.

“Not a spectator sport,” Owen scolds gently, knocking their hips together before bending to wash the foam off his face.

George pulls a face, refoccussing on himself - and sees why Owen had grinned at the sight of him. He does look a fool with only a small amount of his face shaved, the rest still covered in a layer of foam. “How are you feeling?” George reminds, pointedly, before getting back to his own shaving job.

Owen straightens, patting his face dry, and takes a moment to settle his back against the sink, shifting a touch further into George’s space, before he gives an answer. George tries to ignore Owen leaning there, not even half dressed and close enough that George can feel the warmth radiating off his bare skin. It would be hard enough even without the way Owen’s stare weighs heavy. George pauses as he approaches his jawline, aware he’s going to look like an idiot navigating it, but doesn’t let Owen’s warm gaze disturb him. He’d gotten his own share of entertainment out of Owen shaving, after all.

“I think good, overall,” Owen finally replies. “It’s - I don’t know, a bit intimidating I suppose, the whole occasion. I am nervous, yeah, but excited too. It’s an opportunity, both good and bad.”

George nods agreement, thoughtful as he takes his turn to rinse his face off. He thinks Owen’s summed it up there, with the word ‘opportunity’. The pressure not to waste it lines up with the excitement, it’s just a matter of which one you can make yourself focus on, the positive or the negative. Not that it’s necessarily a good thing to be too excited, either - it’s just focus that’s needed, most of all. Focus and calm, the opposite of the excitement and anxiety the two of them have been talking about. But they both know what’s needed, know how to pull that out as the day goes on. You don’t need to eliminate contrary emotions to be able to focus, you can’t, even; their presence has to be acknowledged.

George smiles at Owen as he offers a towel, takes it and steps fully in front of Owen as he pats his face dry. He puts the towel down on the side of the sink as soon as he’s done, reaching out to finally touch all that exposed skin that’s been taunting him. He wraps one hand around Owen’s bicep, slides the other around his waist, and pulls him in for a slow kiss.

Owen sinks into the kiss with a happy sound, wrapping both of his own arms around George’s waist, embracing him in warmth. George lets the hand that was wrapped around Owen’s bicep travel upwards, skimming up his neck. He lingers with his palm there, running a thumb along Owen’s newly smooth jawline. George’s thumb catches as he goes to move his hold to the back of Owen’s head. He repeats the movement again and yep, there it is - a patch of stubble Owen has missed, just at the end of his jawline.

George draws away, not far, just far enough that he can tell Owen. “Missed a spot,” he smiles fondly, stroking his thumb over the patch of hair again.

“I noticed,” Owen tells him wryly. “Can you even see it?” he asks.

George leans back, considering. “Yeah,” he admits. He’s still closer to Owen than you’d be in a normal social situation, but rugby is hardly that, and the zoom of an on pitch camera is even worse.

Owen groans, annoyed.

“Am I good?” George asks, stalling the release of Owen he knows is going to have to come.

Owen eyes George’s face critically. “Looks good,” he tells him, eyes darting back up to George’s to punctuate his words with a flirtatious smirk.

“Thanks, love,” George returns, grinning.

“You’re welcome,” Owen murmurs, his eyes focussing on George’s jaw again. 

Owen leans in, suddenly, taking George by surprise. He presses a soft kiss to the hinge of George’s jaw, starts trailing his lips along George’s jawline, slow and warm. George’s eyes fall shut and he lets the hand on Owen’s jawline drop away, instead resting it lightly on the nape of his neck. Owen is checking for stubble, George supposes, when he manages to make his spinning head think. George tilts his head to give Owen better access, shuddering a little when Owen presses another full kiss to his chin in thanks. Owen moves up, kissing George’s lips while he’s there. George doesn’t want to let him go, tightening his arm around Owen’s body and chasing his lips when Owen pulls away, but he’s not having any of it.

“Oi, I’m trying to help you out here,” Owen murmurs as he runs a series of overlapping pecks down the other side of George’s jaw.

“Yeah, much appreciated,” George concedes, voice breathy as he offers Owen better access again. He’s more affected by the slow brush of Owen’s lips than he’d like to admit. The close warmth of his body, the awareness of smooth bare skin under George’s hands... George is a bit relieved when Owen starts making ridiculous kissing noises as he finishes off his inspection with more pecks, less lingering dragging and warm breath. George laughs, squirming away, as Owen nips at the end of his jawline - as if it doesn’t light that barely receding fire in his belly all over again.

“Okay, okay, thank you,” George insists, pushing Owen off.

Owen grins at him, looking pleased with himself. “You’re all good,” he tells George. “I gotta,” he gestures at the sink, turning away from George and tilting his head until he can see the pesky patch of fuzz in the mirror.

“And I need to pack my bag,” George agrees. But he lingers nonetheless, stepping up behind Owen to press a quick kiss to his shoulder, a quick goodbye to the moment before he turn away, lets them both resume their rituals. They’ve got a match to prepare for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is so ridiculously late again! As I hope you've noticed it is at least also longer than usual. We've become ridiculously busy at work so while I'll still try to post at weekends the next chapter definitely won't be next weekend, due to multiple 12 hour days. As always I hope you enjoyed and would love to hear from you!


	17. Chapter 17

It’s quiet when George and Owen return to the sanctuary of their room after the match, the loss. The post match dinner had been loud, a young and rightfully proud South African team boisterous in their victory, some of the English lads trying to match them with what they had to be proud of. There’s none of that loud pride here now.

Owen hadn’t been able to retreat into his usual post match brooding with no Dylan to rescue him from the responsibilities of the captaincy, instead sinking himself into an analytical discussion with Siya Kolisi. George had stepped up and out of his own inclination towards brooding to join them, partly in support of Owen and partly to fill the gaps left by rested senior members of the squad. It had been a pretty great conversation, before Siya had been pulled away by his team to join their celebrations. Between that and the post match discussion in the locker room George is at a loss for words - they’ve already said all there is to say, and it’s made no difference. They still lost.

After a moment of standing by the door, searching for words, George gives up. He goes to sit on the edge of the bed he and Owen had shared last night and toes his shoes off, then starts on the buttons of his shirt. George watches as Owen stalks the room for a few turns before abruptly turning and sitting opposite George on the other bed, wrenching his shoes off far more violently than George had.

Owen arches up as he wrestles his jacket off, dropping it in a heap on the ground before picking a fight with his top button. Owen wins that battle and abruptly crumples the same way his jacket had, shoulders slumping in and down, head hanging low, as the tension thrumming through him releases. George aches for him, for the weight so clearly weighing heavy on his shoulders, aches with him - but he still doesn’t know what to say.

Instead George stands, moves to sit close next to Owen in the hope that something might come to him. It doesn’t, and he settles for leaning against Owen’s side instead. Judging by the weight with which Owen leans back and the sigh he lets out, that’s enough to help at least a little. George finds it helps him too, just the reminder of Owen’s presence by his side, feeling his support physically holding him up. He shifts to wrap an arm around Owen and lay his head on Owen’s shoulder, squeezing him close.

“Next time,” Owen murmurs, quiet, far from the first time those words have been spoken since the end of the match. 

George just hums acknowledgement - there were good signs, there was hope, and more than a spark of it - but he doesn’t want to lay everything on one result the way every match has felt like since they started this losing run. So George stays quiet, giving Owen another quick squeeze before straightening again to finish unbuttoning his shirt, peeling it off along with his jacket to fall in a heap with Owen’s. They’ll need to give those back for washing, but it’s not so odd to return them together. 

George stands, shucking his trousers quickly and carelessly, then climbs straight into bed as he is. He looks back to Owen, flipping his side of the duvet back in invitation, wanting to put an end to the day as quickly as possible. George is briefly disappointed when Owen turns away, but in the time it takes him to start considering going after him Owen has turned off the overhead light and turned back, dropping his trousers as he walks. 

Owen climbs into bed silently, staying facing George as he reaches out to wrap an arm around George’s shoulders, tuck a hand under his waist, entangle their legs. George lets himself be pulled close, returns Owen’s quiet, fierce embrace, surprised by just how much tension he can feel leaking out of him as Owen leans in the last remaining sliver of distance and rests their foreheads together. It should be uncomfortably intimate, or at least uncomfortably warm, the two of them close enough for Owen’s breath to tickle George’s chin on every exhale. It’s not.

~~~

George maintains that everything there was to be said about the first test had been said the night after, but that doesn’t stop it being the main focus of discussion for the next couple of days - it just makes said discussions more repetitive.

“Boys,” comes a gentle interruption from above as Owen and Ben start to argue about an aspect of the match they’ve disagreed about since it ended.

George looks up in unison with Owen to his left, drops a hand onto Owen’s knee when he sees Verity, their travelling PR representative, standing over them. Owen’s had quite enough long talks with her back in England already, George wonders what on earth this could be about.

“Sorry to interrupt - I’m looking for volunteers for a post match video,” Verity goes on, seeing she has their attention. “We’re looking to have two guys interview each other, just something light hearted - a bit less tension than I was seeing here,” she teases.

George smiles - he does like Verity, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to volunteer for media work. He thinks there’s been quite enough chat about him recently.

Unfortunately everyone else seems to be on much the same page, chuckling politely but avoiding eye contact.

“Well don’t all volunteer at once,” Verity jokes. “I only need two of you, your enthusiasm is appreciated but unnecessary,” she goes on, looking to Owen.

Owen raises his eyebrows at her. “As if,” he dismisses, incredulous. “I think you guys are getting quite enough out of me at the end of the tour, don’t you?”

George laughs a little, squeezing Owen’s knee. He reckons Verity had probably been looking for Owen to volunteer one of them, but it’s not necessarily surprising that he wasn’t quite expecting that yet.

“That was your idea,” Verity points out, teasing.

George catches Maro curiously eyeing his reaction, his hand on Owen’s knee, and promptly releases him.

“We’ll do it,” Elliot speaks up, rapping the back of his hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “When d’you want us?”

“After afternoon group meetings, by the pool?” Verity suggests.

“Works for me,” Jamie agrees, and with that sorted Verity leaves them to their lunch.

“What was all that about then Faz?” Ben asks, sharp, as soon as Verity has gone.

“What?” Owen asks, seeming confused.

George isn’t sure if Owen genuinely hasn’t worked out what Ben is referring to or if he’s being deliberately difficult, but he knows from experience that Ben will get the answer he wants regardless.

“Yeah, it’s normally the PR guys badgering you, not you coming to them,” Jamie comments. “What’ve you been organising with them, more captain’s duties?”

“Oh, no,” Owen shakes his head. “It’s nothing.” 

George cocks his head to the side, frowning at Owen. Is he not going to tell them? They’ll all find out he’s coming out soon enough.

“Fordy seems surprised to hear you say that,” Maro says quietly. 

George flicks a glance at Maro as the rest of the table digests that idea, registers his lack of denial. George wishes he was more surprised that Maro had noticed - he’s really got to get better at hiding his reactions.

“Oh, come on Faz,” Jamie protests. “You’ve not got another secret Fordy knows that the rest of us are left out of, have you? That really would be playing favourites.”

George laughs along with the rest of them, hoping the chorus of laughter hides just how awkward his own addition is. 

“No, this is good,” Ben assures the others. “Fordy’ll crack in no time, he doesn’t have the patience - what is it, mate?” Ben asks.

George glances at Owen. Ben doesn’t know shit, there’s no way George will tell them if Owen doesn’t want him to - but he doesn’t understand why Owen wouldn’t, when they’ll all be finding out in a few weeks regardless.

Owen shrugs - not entirely helpful.

“You’ve told me things before,” Ben says slyly, with his own loaded look to Owen. 

George glares, sharper than he’d intended if the way Ben actually flinches back is anything to go by. “I’ve not told you anything that wasn’t mine to tell,” he says pointedly. “Though I didn’t really think this was a secret,” George says, looking back to Owen again when he thinks Ben looks appropriately chastised.

“I guess it’s not, it’s just not that big of a deal,” Owen shrugs, again, and George feels his eyebrows fly up. “I wasn’t trying to hide it, just not counting on the way you guys escalated so quickly,” he jokes. “I’m coming out, publically, after the last test. Nothing big, no announcement or anything,” Owen tells them. “Just going to do a captain’s review of the tour and mention it in that.”

“That’s a pretty big deal, Faz,” Elliot is the first to point out.

Owen shrugs, and George is really started to get annoyed by that. George understands modesty, understands Owen’s modesty, even - but Owen knows full well how big this is. It’s not the kind of thing that can be played down without disrespecting it, in George’s view. “It shouldn’t be,” Owen says. “Telling England ended up being more lowkey than I expected, hoping media might go the same.”

“Keep dreaming,” Ben scoffs, as George tries to catch his own involuntary laugh before it can quite escape. “But that’s brilliant Faz, you know we’re behind you all the way,” he says, clapping Owen on the shoulder.

“Yeah, mate, let us know if there’s anything we can do to support you, alright?” Jamie adds. “I guess we’ll tweet, but - anything else.”

“You don’t need to do anything,” Owen says immediately, shaking his head. “I’m just going to say it and leave it, I don’t want it treated as a big thing.”

George shifts, uncomfortable. Owen had told him he didn’t need to say anything and George had frankly planned to ignore it, but if he’s telling everyone...

“Whether you want it treated that way or not, it _is_ a big thing,” Maro says sensibly. “For the media, sure - but we can tell it is for you, too, you know. You’ve been so much more relaxed this tour - you must be looking forward to it.” 

George looks at Owen thoughtfully, as Owen frowns at Maro. Has Owen been more relaxed this tour? George supposes he has, at least with the guys. He can relax into the teasing and joking around now that they know, now that he’s not trying to avoid or hide anything. There was still a bit of tension there over the Six Nations, when it was new information, a novelty. By now everyone’s used to it, has incorporated the knowledge into their normal picture of Owen and doesn’t keep tripping up on the knowledge. George isn’t sure Owen _has_ been more relaxed overall, not with the captain’s duties weighing heavy on his shoulders and his driving need to win - but George supposes that’s typical, any additional work hidden away in those extra meetings he’s been having, the extra time he’s been spending reviewing videos and going over tactics in his and George’s room. The others haven’t seen that like George has. 

“I am,” Owen says, after a moment’s thought. “But the Prem knowing was the big thing, I don’t think the public knowing is going to make that much more difference to me, day to day. And I don’t want my coming out to be a big deal - it shouldn’t be.”

“But it is a big deal,” Ben says, confused. “The public knowing is going to be the biggest deal, surely, that’s going to be a massive. You have to know that?”

And George thinks he can see where they’re talking at cross purposes now - Owen is looking forward to people knowing, to be able to relax and not worry about it anymore, to the difference that will make - but not to the act of telling people. For him, telling Saracens, then England, then the whole Premiership finding out - that was what affected him most. The guys, the straight guys, only understand coming out as that first moment of revelation, can only see what a big news story this will be, far bigger than the gossip of last time. George can see the distinction, but he’s not sure how to express it so that the others can too.

“Of course I know that,” Owen scoffs, getting defensive. “I know it better than you - I remember when Alfie came out, I know how that feels as a gay kid. But it shouldn’t be a big deal for me to say I’m gay, because me _being_ gay isn’t a big deal,” he spells out for them. “That’s been the best thing about how you lads have reacted, in England - it wasn’t a big deal.”

“It’s funny, isn’t it, that you’re having to come out twice,” Elliot says with a smile, moving the conversation on.

“Three times,” Jamie pipes up, “Including Sarries.”

“And four times including George, five with my parents. Six for my sisters, seven for the guys at school - coming out doesn’t work like that,” Owen explains, shaking his head.

“Owen, if you don’t want us to acknowledge it then we won’t,” Maro says, moving the conversation on as the others seem to digest Owen’s words. “But the reaction is going to be massive either way - what we do or don’t do won’t make the difference there.”

Owen hesitates. “I guess,” he accepts.

“If none of us say anything there might actually be more talk,” Jamie adds.

“Owen,” George leans forward as Owen seems to consider this, catching and holding his eye. “He’s right. I get that for you, now the Prem know, this isn’t the biggest moment - so this is for the public, for that little kid you were when Gareth Thomas came out, for those poor suckers who play Folau,” George says, knowing from the way Owen’s eyes have softened that he’s got him. “It’s your coming out, yeah, of course it’s about you and us wanting to support you - that’s why we won’t say anything if you don’t want us to. But us tweeting, or whatever - that shows those kids that we’re behind you, that your sexuality doesn’t make a difference in an international rugby team. You coming out is going to be such a big thing for so many people - we want to celebrate that, yeah? To be part of it. We _want_ to be behind you in this, behind them. Let us,” he beseeches, not looking away. 

“Ooh, looks like he found just the right angle there. Well done Fordy,” Elliot congratulates. “I can’t say I’d thought about it like that, not that clearly, but he’s right, Faz,” Elliot goes on, as Owen finally breaks the eye contact between him and George.

“You don’t need us to get you through this - okay, we get that,” Jamie picks up. Owen glances at George, just for a second.. “But Fordy’s right, those kids could do with it.”

“Yeah,” Owen accepts, with bad grace. “Okay.”

~~~

George is one of the first at dinner that evening, ends up sat by himself for a little while because he hadn’t quite been feeling the energy of Ben Youngs’ table when he’d arrived. He’d also chosen to avoid Cipriani’s table, something he’s feeling happier about the more raucous it gets - there’s only one cause for quite that much celebration: selection. George figures he’d’ve been told if he were getting dropped from the starting fifteen - he had at the Six Nations, after all - so Danny is probably only on the bench, but that doesn’t mean George wants to be there to hear all about it.

“Hey babe,” Owen greets, voice low, effectively distracting George from his food as he drops into the open seat next to him.

“Hey,” George smiles warmly, knocking their knees together under the table. “Good meeting?” he asks, knowing Owen will have come straight from talking with the coaches, a follow up on yesterday’s review meeting, and the match break down that had come straight after the game. Being captain sure does mean a lot of meetings.

“Yeah,” Owen nods. “Really clearing up what we want from this weekend I think - now we’ve just got to deliver it.”

“Oh, so just the easy part left?” George jokes.

“Yeah,” Owen replies absently, then stalls. “We’re going to -” he starts, gestures subtly in the direction of Cipriani’s table.

“He’s on the bench?” George checks.

“Yeah,” Owen looks nervous to tell George that. “Just to try something different, at the end of the match. Just to see.”

“Okay,” George replies with a shrug. It doesn’t stop Owen looking at him anxiously. “ _Okay_ , Owen,” George reiterates. “I’d figured it out from the volume of that table anyway,” he jokes, smiling at Owen to encourage him to join in.

Owen does smile, but he seems confused. “You really are okay,” he assesses, half a question.

“Yeah,” George confirms. “I’m playing better than I was in the Six Nations, I’m doing what I can - can’t control what he does, but I’m happy with what I’m doing.”

“Okay,” Owen accepts, shaking his head. “After the whole - watching, thing, I just - I’m glad,” he settles on.

George decides to skip over the implication that Owen still views his comments on Danny watching him as paranoia. “I’m not going to pretend I’m happy about it,” George admits - of course he’d _rather_ there was no second choice ten, other than Owen on the pitch anyway, of course he’d _rather_ Danny would stop knocking at the door. “I still don’t like him watching me, but - I’ve just got to focus on myself.”

It’s something George knows, has known, but spelling it out to Owen settles something inside him. He just has to work on himself. Danny will do what he does, whatever that is - all George can do is work on improving his own performance. And he has been, has put together a run of good matches personally regardless of the overall outcome. Eddie will do whatever Eddie will do, will choose whatever he will choose - all George can do is work on himself, the same way he always does.

~~~

George hadn’t thought, before, about the fact that Cipriani was threatening to leapfrog Owen’s position at fly half. It hadn’t crossed his mind with Owen reliably playing 80 minutes, captaining the side, seemingly happy at inside center. But as the next day goes by and George spots Owen shooting Danny dark looks at least often as he catches Cipriani looking at him, it’s something George starts to consider. 

It’s especially notable as George catches Cipriani watching him a lot, stepping up to every inch of the imaginings George had previously half thought to be paranoid. He sits with George for breakfast, near him in their morning meeting, then spots him in the gym. Danny's polite about it at least, the way he looks to George through the meeting in a manner best described as attentive, but his very presence is still shoving his selection in George’s face in an undeniable way.

If Danny were louder George might think he was trying to be friendly, but he’s just - watching. It’s not that he’s not saying anything, but George knows from Danny’s previous behaviour in camp that this isn’t how he behaves around friends, around those he’s trying to make friends. In those situations he’s loud, teasing, joking around constantly - this quiet and polite small talk isn’t what George has seen at all. If the quietness wasn’t so clearly watching it would be like he was mirroring George, mirroring his behaviour right back at him. As it is George imagines he’s just not really enough to hold Danny’s boisterous attention, 10 jersey or no 10 jersey. 

Owen’s reaction is honestly a welcome distraction - every time it gets a little too much, Cipriani feels a little too close, George looks up and away and there’s Owen, watching Danny back just as closely, almost glaring. At first seeing Owen reminds George of the promise he’d made to himself, to focus on himself and not worry about whatever Cipriani may or may not do. As the morning wears on and the pattern establishes itself, the distraction shifts to worry about Owen.

George would have thought Owen happy at inside center - he’d supported George enough from the very moment George had come into the senior squad, even through the first few times when they’d still been awkward around each other. This is the first sign George has seen that maybe Owen isn’t happy just playing for England, that maybe he does still want to play fly half, to make those on the pitch calls. It intrigues George almost as much as it worries him. Owen, England captain, heart of their side, unhappy with his position? It’s hard to imagine. 

George takes a seat at lunch, smiling at Owen as he immediately takes the seat next to George.

“Alright Georgie?” Owen asks as Cipriani joins them, as if they’ve been apart for more than the 10 second walk from the buffet to the table.

“Alright,” George replies, acknowledging Danny with a nod.

“It’s a full meeting after this, right?” Danny checks.

George nods, his mouth full of food. “Then a rugby session - meant to be a bit of a kicking focus, right?” George turns to Owen.

“Yeah,” Owen nods. “Especially on place kicking, or at least that’s the idea.”

“Seems pointless for us when Owen’s so good, hey Georgie?” Danny tries. 

George can’t help the way he instantly pulls a face - he’s never let anyone but Owen and his mum call him Georgie, and he’s not about to start now. Danny is the first one in the squad to try it, something George probably should have expected now Owen has started again. Luckily Ben comes to join them before George’s reaction can become too obvious, too awkward.

They chat lightly through the meal, Ben’s presence turning the conversation to his and George’s Leicester teammates, to how their various international matches are getting on.

“Oh, come on,” Danny bursts out when the meal is close to done, after Ben asks after the exploits of Owen and Danny’s international teammates. “We’ve got more rugby chat in meetings after this, don’t you guys want to talk about something else for a bit?”

“Not really,” Owen says blankly. It’s - harsh, George thinks, blinking at Owen. The words, sure, but those could have been teasing. It’s more the tone in which he says it, as if the idea is unfathomable, as if Danny is an idiot for suggesting such a thing. 

“That’s rugby families for you,” George shrugs, trying to lighten Owen’s dismissal. “He’ll go upstairs and have half the same chat with his dad later, there’s no escaping it,” George teasing, hooking a thumb towards Owen and knocking their knees together playfully.

“Yeah, because you’re so much better with Mike,” Owen scoffs, knocking their elbows together in return. “And Joe, _and_ Jacob - at least if I talk to my brother it’ll be about his day, not just the latest rugby league match.”

“I mean, you _know_ I get it,” George replies, tapping their elbows together again, more affectionate than playful this time. “But there’s no way I’m worse than you. Your sisters are just as bad, I’m not going to let you skate by on the fact that Gabe is _seven_ ,” George protests.

“You get this madness, Georgie?” Danny demands, before George can go on.

George draws in a breath before he can stop himself. Danny’s stepping all over markers of his and Owen’s relationship right now, little as he knows it. The nickname, the reference to understanding - it’s no wonder Owen is frowning at him too. 

“Rugby family,” George smiles politely. 

“Sorry, did you just call him ‘Georgie’?” Ben asks Danny, incredulous, pulling a face to match Owen’s.

“Yeah?” Danny replies, frowning right back.

“Since when have people called you Georgie?” Ben demands of George.

“Since never,” George confirms to Ben, glad for an opportunity to make that clear.

“Faz called you Georgie like 10 minutes ago,” Danny protests.

“Okay, so since I was about 13,” George amends sarcastically. “But since I was about 13 no one else has started, and it’s probably best for all of us that they don’t. If I thought he’d listen I’d be trying to stop him, too,” George indicates Owen, turning his tone joking. 

“Okay then,” Ben raises his eyebrows, then turns to Danny. “I think he’s serious, mate,” Ben tells Danny, clapping him on the shoulder.

George lets out a sigh of relief - if anyone was going to push through, it would be Ben. The fact that he can tell George is serious should definitely help in putting the others off.

“Maybe when you’ve known him for more than a decade you’ll get the right,” Owen suggests to Danny with a smile, slinging an arm around George’s shoulders. It’s a good natured, but only barely. George can read the smugness in Owen’s hold clear as day, wishes it bothered him more. George elbows Owen in the ribs for appearance’s sake, but there’s only so much to uphold when he’s allowing Owen - and only Owen - to call him ‘Georgie’ publically.

“Hey,” Ben begins, wheedling. “I’ve known you for _nearly_ a decade-” 

“No,” George cuts off, immediate. He’s not letting this spread. He probably _should_ ask Owen to stop calling him Georgie in front of the guys, probably should have done it weeks ago, but he just can’t bring himself to mind. He hadn’t thought anyone had really noticed - should’ve known it would be the most awkward guy possible when someone finally did.

“Alright, Fordy,” Danny concedes. “This doesn’t change that you lot seriously need to grow some interests outside of rugby.”

“It’s been said,” George agrees, smiling at Danny warmly. “Something about us being endlessly boring to hold a conversation with, I don’t remember the details.”

“It’s meeting time now though, so we might want to hold off on that,” Owen points out, standing. He trails a hand across George’s shoulders as he does so, brushing against the bare skin of his neck.

George tenses to hold back from shuddering, giving Owen the most subtle reproachful look he can manage as he also stands. Owen just widens his eyes innocently back, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. George shakes his head. At least Owen seems to have snapped out of his moody staring, even if it has come at the expense of a little of George’s dignity.

~~~

The meeting runs smoothly, everyone happy they’re on the same page with regards to the game plan for the weekend. Kicking goes well too, one of George’s better sessions as he focuses even more intently than usual in an attempt to ignore the way Cipriani looks over at least every other kick. George actually kicks better than Owen, who’s gone back to glaring at Danny at least as often as Danny stares at George.

Dinner is a refuge, George sneaking into the last seat at Ben’s table and leaving Owen and Danny to sort themselves out. It’s actually nice to spend a little time without Owen, outside of their typical friendship group. Ben Youngs, Mike Brown, and Joe Marler are not people George can maintain the energy for for long, but it’s a nice change. The evening draws to a close quickly, though, Owen catching George’s eye as he leaves the room and George following as soon as is reasonable. Nice as this group are, they’re not nice enough to win out over time alone with Owen.

“Alright?” Owen greets when George arrives in their room.

“Alright,” George replies. He kicks off his shoes and settles cross legged onto the bed, letting his knee brush against Owen’s thigh where he’s lounging back against the pillows. “What’s up with Cips?” he asks as soon as he's settled, seeing no reason to wait.

“Right?” Owen demands in return, animated. “He really is watching you, he was through dinner too.”

“Okay,” George interrupts, before Owen can build up a real head of steam. “I knew that, I told you that - let me rephrase: what’s up with _you_ and Cipriani?”

Owen frowns at George. “Nothing?”

George frowns back, trying to think of the best way to phrase this. “I know - I know it’s your place at fly half he’s taking,” George finally just spits out. 

“Yeah, has been all tour,” Owen points out, shrugging. “I’d rather be second choice to you than third behind him, sure, but it doesn’t affect my spot in the squad.”

“Then why were you glaring at him half the day?” George asks, exasperated. He hadn’t thought it was that, not to bother Owen so much, but hadn’t had anything else to go on.

“Was I?” Owen asks, frowning. “I honestly didn’t mean to. I don’t like the way he was watching you,” Owen repeats. “I know you said but - I hadn’t really seen it before. It _is_ weird.”

“Today was a bit much,” George acknowledges.

“I mean, I know he’s just trying to copy you, figure out what you do differently - especially off the field. But it’s definitely creepy - I didn’t mean to glare, but someone should put him off,” Owen says.

“Is that what he’s doing?” George asks cynically. “I really can’t figure him out, he could be doing anything.” One of those things being trying to put George off, which is one of the reasons he’s newly so determined not to cave to it. Then his brain catches up with Owen’s last words. “You can’t ‘put him off’,” George says, exasperated.

“You’re not,” Owen points out.

“I’ve got used to it,” George says. “No, really,” he insists when Owen looks sceptical. “Look, I still don’t like it, of course I don’t. But if I start acting standoffish it gives him ground, shows the others that I feel threatened by him - because if you didn’t notice him watching me before you can bet the others still haven’t.”

“I don’t know, it really _was_ a bit much today,” Owen cuts in. “And I get why you can’t do something, but at least I can, that doesn’t make it look like it bothers you.”

“Of course it does,” George scoffs. “Or it makes it look like his selection bothers _you_ \- people are amazed enough that we get on, half the time. You’re the captain, Owen,” George reminds him. “You can’t go around glaring at one of your fly halves.”

“Only when he’s staring at you,” Owen grumbles. “And he didn’t even notice.” 

George knows Owen’s feeble protest means he knows George is right. “It’s _fine_ ,” George insists. “I don’t like it, sure, but it’s nothing I can’t handle - especially when I’ve got you to talk to about it, if I need to.”

Owen just grumbles wordlessly.

“What was that?” George asks, lightening his tone. “‘Mumble mumble’? I’m sure captains should communicate more clearly than that with their tens - do you want to try again?”

“Mumble mumble,” Owen says, perfectly clearly, a grin tugging at his mouth.

George smiles back, before sobering slightly. “I do appreciate it,” he says quietly. “Just so you know - I might not need it, I might not want it, but I do appreciate the sentiment.” 

Owen sits forwards and pulls George in with an arm around his shoulder, wordless, kissing him on the temple.

“Just keep it to in here if I need to vent to you about it again, yeah?” George requests.

George can’t see Owen’s face, but he can tell from the slight movement of his head that he’s rolling his eyes. “Yes, Georgie,” he concedes sarcastically.

“Good captain,” George praises, laughing when Owen tackles him to the bed in retaliation. “You should really stop calling me that,” George adds belatedly, reluctantly, when they separate from the inevitable kiss.

“‘Georgie’?” Owen checks. “You really want me to?” he asks, sounding surprised, settling back to sit on George’s hips.

“Not even a little bit,” George admits, resting his hands on Owen’s waistband. “But you probably should.”

Owen shrugs. “I reckon we got away with it with Ben and Cips today. If you don’t want me to stop, and I don’t want to - I’m not going to. Okay?” he asks.

“Okay,” George agrees, a smile tugging at his lips. He likes it, is the thing. It’s not sensible, sure, but he likes the little reminder, when they can’t have others, of what they are to each other. He likes the mark that he’s something special to Owen, that Owen is something special to him, to be allowed the privilege - even if the other lads don’t get it, even if they don’t _want_ the others to get it. He still likes it.

“Georgie,” Owen murmurs, leaning back down to taste that smile, and that’s the last multisyllabic word either of them manage for a while.

~~~

Owen is good about it after that. Danny keeps his distance the next day, and the day after, more of the watching of the first week than the hovering of Tuesday - maybe he had felt Owen’s glares after all. Either way it’s just a few of the usual group at lunchtime - George, Owen, Jamie, Elliot, and Jonny. 

“Feeling good?” Owen asks, generally, as Jonny fills the last seat.

“Alright,” George confirms, happy to check in. It’s close to match day, George understands and can clearly see the urge now running through Owen to constantly check and monitor his players, to ensure that everyone is as close to ready as it is reasonably possible to be at this stage.

Other confirmations echo around the table, until Elliot.

“What’s it to you?” he asks, teasing.

“I’m your captain,” Owen bats back.

“You’ve been reserve for ages, never bothered asking us before,” Jonny brings up, unexpectedly confrontational. “Just head down, work hard, bit of banter, go home. I’m not sure if I’m comfortable with this new level of investment in everyone else - you’ll be asking after our partners next, evenings and holiday plans and everything!” he jokes.

“Well I didn’t want to ask questions I couldn’t answer, did I?” Owen points out, as the others laugh.

“What d’you mean?” Jamie frowns. 

George thinks it’s rather obvious.

“I mean I couldn’t really ask you guys about things I didn’t want to talk about, could I?” Owen says. “When you lads were chatting about your families or whatever, yeah, it was good to talk, but I didn’t want it to turn to me. If I asked it’d only be polite for you guys to ask back, and if that kept happening people could start to notice that I didn’t ever have a girlfriend, wasn’t dating, and maybe start to wonder why. Maybe people don’t actually care that much, or aren’t that observant, but it was easier just to keep to myself a bit,” Owen shrugs, clearly seeing it as obvious as George does. “It was bad enough at Sarries - people there definitely _did_ notice that I never dated, and even when they’d learnt that there was pretty much no point in bugging me, they still tried. It was pretty stressful at times,” he admits.

“I am sorry, mate,” Jamie says quietly. “If I ever made you uncomfortable, anything like that - you know we all would be.”

Owen waves a hand. “You didn’t know,” he dismisses. “But yeah, go on - are you up to anything nice this evening?” Owen asks Jonny sarcastically. “Got a holiday planned after this is over?”

“Nothing more exciting than packing this evening, but thanks for asking,” Jonny replies, deliberately earnest. “Going off to Spain with Sophie in late July, but we’re waiting until I’m home to properly plan it.”

“Late July?” Jamie asks. “No, you’re doing that all wrong - you want to get the holiday done early so you don’t have to even _think_ about building up for pre season while you’re away. We’re doing Italy - flying a week after tour ends.”

“I mean, you are right,” Jonny agrees. “But Sophie doesn’t get any off season from her job, so she’ll be in the gym anyway. Doesn’t make much difference to me,” he shrugs.

“No, that’s still totally different,” Jamie insists, shaking his head.

“Rookie mistake,” Elliot sighs. “Anyone would think you’ve never done a summer tour before. Me and Michelle had the South of France booked about three months ago, same date as Jinsky here.”

“Some of us know how to holiday,” Jamie grins. “Though, not too impressed you booked it all to deny me holiday time with your dog.”

“Might not have been quite as well prepared but I’ve got you all beat,” Owen pipes up, before Elliot and Jamie can start bickering. “As soon as we land at Heathrow I’m grabbing my bag and getting straight on another plane. Two weeks in Italy, no time wasted.”

“Straight from the airport?” Elliot demands. “Nah, you’ve messed that one up mate. What are you going to wear?”

“I don’t care,” Owen tells Elliot blithely. 

“Have you got many casual clothes with you, or are you going to have to wear your England kit half the holiday?” Elliot pushes.

“I don’t care.”

“England swimming trunks?” Jamie joins in.

“Don’t care,” Owen repeats.

“What are you doing to do out there?” Jonny asks, trying another angle. 

“I don’t care,” Owen says, as if he hasn’t spent hours looking up local attractions, arguing - mostly with himself - about whether or not he should go out so soon after coming out.

“Is there anything you do care about?” Elliot asks, sounding both amused and confused.

“Going,” Owen decides. “Anything else - not really. So long as I’m there, and my boyfriend’s there, I don’t need anything else.”

And George has had hints, before, of how much Owen was looking forward to this holiday, but none so direct as this. It’s been evident in the way Owen is constantly dropping mentions of it, in his research of the location, in his keen interest in every detail of the booking - including the night he’d tried to insist on paying for half of it, which was less fun for everyone involved, nearly devolving into an actual argument before Owen had conceded. George might not have realised at the time just how much Owen would appreciate the idea of a holiday just for the two of them, but if he wanted to spoil his boyfriend he would, regardless of what Owen had to say in the matter. Knowing, seeing so clearly, that Owen is looking forward to it _this_ much - it only makes it better.

“Ah,” comes the table wide moment of realisation. 

“So _that’s_ what you’re so excited about,” Elliot verbalises for the lot of them.

“No need for swimming trunks then,” Jamie teases.

“The place has got its own pool and a private beach, so no, I guess not,” Owen grins wickedly.

Owen’s not looking at George but that doesn’t do anything to diminish the impact of that smile, that mental image.

“You trust that?” Jamie asks.

Owen shrugs. “He found the place, I trust him.”

“We better make sure we win this tour then,” Elliot says decisively. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your holiday by leaving you all grumpy and disappointed.”

“I don’t -” Owen stops himself. “Okay, so I do care about that,” he admits, with a self deprecating smile. “But nothing is going to spoil this holiday for me - nothing could.” Solid resolution and confidence rings clear in Owen’s voice, the same way it had when he talked about not caring about what he would wear, what they would do. 

George ducks his head to hide his smile, hoping the others will just see it as continued focus on his food.

Jonny whistles. “Never thought I’d hear you even _start_ to say you don’t care about a result,” he says, wondering.

“He’s really -” Elliot starts, stops himself. “You’re really that -?”

Owen raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re going to have to finish a sentence for me to decide whether or not I’m going to reply to it.”

“I think we’re just as amazed as Jonny by you - almost - saying that,” Jamie steps in, Elliot nodding agreement. “And - glad, Faz,” he adds, sincere. “I’m glad he makes you that happy.”

“I mean, me too,” Owen jokes.

George glances sideways at Owen while everyone laughs, catches a small, gentle smile spreading across his face, at odds with his tone. George lets himself smile, watching Owen, enjoying the slight flush building up his neck as he carefully doesn’t return George’s gaze.

“How about you, Fordy?” Jonny asks. “You still looking at that place in Italy?”

George looks away from Owen quickly, wipes his face clear of expression. “Uh, yeah,” George replies. “Maybe,” he hedges, not wanting the others to connect the holidays that closely.

“Italy’s a popular choice with rugby players,” Elliot muses. “We’ll have to go next year, try one of your places, see what all the fuss is about.”

“It’s the carbs,” George tells him, already fantasising about the amount of pizza he and Owen will get through.

“You should do the Amalfi,” Jamie encourages. “God, I can’t wait to get there.”

“Not long now,” Owen says, clearly thinking the same.

“And the only way out is through,” Jonny provides.

There’s a moment where everyone - including Jonny - processes how unexpectedly profound that sounds, before laughter breaks them. 

Beneath the laughter, George finally catches Owen’s eyes, letting his happiness through. It really isn’t long now, barely more than two weeks and they’ll be together, no teammates to worry about, 24 hours a day. This tour, their shared room, has been a gift, and it’s only made George hungry for more. He’s used, now, to being able to reach out for Owen within the confines of their shared space - he can’t wait for that space to expand, to be able to relax and be themselves in every room of a building, not just the two they’re currently limited to. From the look on his face, Owen is thinking the same.

Before that, though, they’ve got matches to get through. George is beyond flattered that Owen had nearly claimed not to care about the results of the Tests, but he’s unsurprised Owen hadn’t managed to get the words out. It wouldn’t be true, and George has been far from oblivious to the way the tension inside Owen has been ramping up during the week. He’s kept it well hidden from the others, George thinks, only seemed his normal driven self, but George can see in the evenings how much Owen wants this. Whichever way it goes, they’ll be happy to get to the holiday - but George does hope that it can be a celebration, as well as escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My goodness, I'm alive, I've posted - I hope none of you have fainted from the shock! Seasonal depression has been kicking my butt, as is standard, but I do have (very) rough drafts of the next two chapters already written, and I'm really looking forward to the one after that (the last chapter!!), so hopefully I will manage to finish this darned fic in less than the time it took me to get this chapter up! As always I hope you all enjoyed, and may I wish you all a very Happy New Year! <3


	18. Chapter 18

To say the match went badly would be an understatement. The match went up in flames, went to hell in a handbasket, the worst case of deja vu. George could feel it coming when the coaches pulled him off, could feel it in the lack of impact he was making ball after ball as he scanned the field and found no hole in the South African defence. It was the only thing he could feel more keenly than Owen’s rising frustration as he saw the same. 

George is honestly relieved when the match is over, glad it’s done with. He’d almost forgotten just how much he hated sitting on the sidelines watching, how much he craved to be out there making what little difference he can. But now it’s over, and he doesn’t have to watch his team, his friends, his boyfriend, being repeatedly frustrated. George knows this is far from the end of it, knows the evening will likely be filled with rehashing even before they review the tapes in camp, but he’ll take what temporary respite he can get. He just wishes it looked like Owen was doing the same.

George knows he’s being obvious as he watches Owen around the pitch, watches him give interviews, slips up to his side in the team circle and holds on tight while he gives his speech. George knows he’s being obvious but he’s _worried_ \- he knows how much Owen wanted this win, wanted to turn this team around, keep this opportunity alive. It’s gone, now, only a glimmer of hope for redemption left in the third test, no meaningful victory to shoot for.

George follows Owen into the changing room, just as close as he has been since he got off the bench after the match. They’re two of the first back into the dressing room, but George still lowers his voice as he raises a hand to Owen’s shoulder.

“Owen,” he murmurs, not at all sure what’s going to come next. The one thing he isn’t expecting is for Owen to shrug away.

“Later,” Owen implores, voice even lower than George’s had been.

George opens his mouth to argue, more out of surprise than anything, then stops when Owen looks him in the eye. Owen looks devastated, filled with sadness George had expected and aches to sooth - but there’s more in there. There’s a rawness and a splintering in Owen’s eyes that George is frankly a little afraid to touch, certainly doesn’t want to disturb in from of a room of their teammates, however few of them might actually be present at the moment. George isn’t sure if Owen would explode in rage or burst into tears, doesn’t think Owen would know either, but he knows something unmistakable would happen, something Owen wouldn’t want the squad to see - something neither of them would want the squad to see him helping with.

“Okay,” George acknowledges, pulling his hand back. “Later,” he promises, though. However wary of Owen’s reaction George may be, leaving him looking that broken is unthinkable.

George retreats to his own stall, careful not to let his and Owen’s knees brush when he sits to untie his shoelaces. He catches Elliot’s eye as Elliot goes to approach Owen, shakes his head minutely. Luckily that seemed to be the only indication Elliot needs to back off with an understanding nod and a sympathetic grimace. George reaches out to pat Elliot on the hip as he walks past, returning the expression.

When George glances back over to Owen he catches him watching, apparently having seen the interaction. Owen raises an eyebrow at George, who shrugs. Yes, he’d put Elliot off coming over when Owen hadn’t wanted to talk - what of it? Owen offers his own little shrug in return and moves to pull off his own boots, letting them drop carelessly to the floor. It’s probably a step above staring aimlessly into space; George will take it.

George fobs off Ben and Maro - Maro realistically needing no more than his own look at Owen’s slumped shoulders, and Ben likely more interested in the shared commiserations with George anyway - before someone sneaks through.

It’s Tom Curry, too lost in his own despair to see that Owen is suffering just as much. Owen stands to strip his shirt off and Tom walks right up to him, collides with him, only raising his arms to make it an embrace a few moments later.

Owen stays frozen for a second as Tom buries his head in his shoulder, the cracks in his eyes resurfacing. George, frankly, panics a little. Is this where Owen breaks? No one wants that - not Owen, not him, and certainly not Tom Curry, who seems broken enough himself without having to deal with whatever Owen’s reaction will be.

“Sorry Faz,” Tom mutters, seemingly coming back to himself and pulling away a little as Owen fails to respond.

That seems to soften something in Owen, who finally embraces Tom in return. “Tough loss,” he manages.

Tom only allows himself to stay in Owen’s returned hold for a moment before he pulls away. “Yeah,” Tom shrugs, going to turn away.

Owen stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “You played well,” he tells Tom, and George can see Owen tightening his grip in the way Tom sways. “You know we won’t let it end like this, yeah?”

Tom looks up from the ground for the first time in the exchange, making eye contact with Owen. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Owen confirms. “Because I know you, and I know the rest of these guys - South Africa haven’t seen the last of us yet.”

“We lost the series though,” Tom deflates again at his own reminder.

“We’ve never won a series in South Africa,” Owen reminds him in turn. “Hasn’t stopped us beating them a time or two. They’ve got nothing left to play for, and we’ve got nothing to lose. It’s pride, this next one - and you know we’re not short of that.”

“Yeah,” Tom repeats, this time nodding, some confidence returning to the lines of his face.

George isn’t sure how this is different from the rest of the matches they’ve played since Scotland, but he’s not going to be the one to say that when something’s lightened in Tom’s eyes. Instead he claps Tom on the shoulder as he walks away, offering a ‘good game’ that he seems to genuinely hear, accepting it with a nod.

George turns back to Owen, flicking his eyes over him to assess the damage. Owen seems, somehow, better. He’d cracked, in that first embrace, George had seen it - but reaching out to Tom seems to have soothed something in him. 

“Alright?” George asks, just to check what he’s seeing.

“Alright,” Owen nods confirmation. “You?” he asks, serious, eyes catching George’s.

George... has been mostly focussing on Owen, not dealing with his own reaction, even in his brief chat with Ben. He shrugs. “Been better,” he admits, not wanting to look at it too much closer.

Owen’s face softens with sympathy for a moment, but he’s barely starting reaching towards George before he wipes his face clean of expression and retracts his hand. “Later,” he promises, quietly.

“Later,” George echoes.

That exchange with Tom holds the most meaningful words George hears out of Owen over an hour. There’s no in depth discussion after this loss, the hurt too real and hope too small. Owen won’t, can’t, orchestrate it, and the coaches, seeing that, know better than to try. Maybe it’s exactly when they should have a breakdown of the match, to band them together, but Owen had given all he could on the pitch - and George wouldn’t be surprised if digging deep like that hadn’t been what had broken him quite so visibly. Without that, and with the others following the coaches and George’s lead, Owen is left largely alone.

~~~

George sits next to Owen at the after match dinner for the second week in a row, on the same table as Siya Kolisi once again. Owen is polite, fully fulfilling his role as captain - but no more. After a few attempts at the analytical breakdown they’d shared after the last week Siya seems to know to let the conversation drop. He engages, instead, with Elliot and Jamie - and George admires his dedication, to not retreat to his own team’s celebrations as soon as the main course is done. Even after the meal is finished, when a few of Siya’s team come over to try and drag him away, he waves them off.

“Owen,” Siya says, turning from Elliot and Jamie. “I’ve been hearing that you’re gay?” The words are cautious, gentle, and clearly well meant. Elliot and Jamie haven’t even heard, Siya’s voice now pitched away from them. George turns to the conversation all the same.

“Brits said something?” Owen asks, sounding surprised.

George can see why Owen has made the assumption, Siya’s words coming after Brits’ arrival to the squad, but it’s like he’s forgotten that the whole Premiership knows now. George is already shaking his head as Siya does the same.

“He’s not said a word either way,” Siya claims.

“Faf de Klerk,” George guesses, Siya not denying this one.

Owen makes eye contact with George, surprised, seeming not to have realised that he was listening. George just raises an eyebrow. As if he would leave Owen alone in this.

“I simply wanted to alert you to the rumours,” Siya says.

“Thanks,” Owen nods, not appearing to know what else to say. 

“Half a season to the Southern hemisphere,” George muses, stepping in, remembering their conversation from Brad earlier in the tour. “I guess that puts you back in the ‘pretty big deal’ category, well done.”

“My dream,” Owen says sarcastically, rolling his eyes, but George can see the smile twitching at the edges of his lips.

“It is true?” Siya inquires, looking between the two of them.

“Yeah,” Owen confirms with a shrug. “I don’t mind the boys talking about it, but I do appreciate you giving me the heads up.”

Siya appears to think on this for a moment. “What we are doing is not so different, you and I,” he smiles.

Owen blinks - George supposes he’s not considered this.

“I’m not the first,” Owen points out, downplaying it.

“First English, as I am the first South African,” Siya points out. Then he shakes his head, dismissing the subject. “I simply wished to alert you to the rumours”

“Well, thanks,” Owen manages. “Hopefully they won’t hate me too much when I come out as a losing captain.” It’s clear an attempt at a joke, but it falls flat.

George looks at Owen sharply - is this part of what’s Owen’s been brooding on? George would have thought the loss more than enough in itself, but if Owen is thinking further on how this affects his image, affects the media’s view of him and the reception he’ll get when he comes out... Well, it’s no wonder he’s been quite so quiet. 

“You are going to tell the media?” Siya asks.

Owen shrugs. “After the tour. Was hoping it would be in a bit of a happier context,” he jokes - the same self deprecating tone, the same failure to land.

“If anything it might stop them talking about the tour,” George provides quietly. “They can’t criticise our play when they’re talking up what you’re doing.”

“Oh, they can,” Owen scoffs, moving away from where George had tried to lean their knees together. He’s cracking again, George can see it. He bites his lip to leave off the urge to press his point - _later_ , he reminds himself.

“No, I believe George is correct,” Siya contributes. “Some of them, yes, will use this to criticise you more, and more personally. But they would have done so anyway, and there will be few of them. The majority of the media will focus on what you are doing more than they focus on your results. At least for now,” he adds.

Owen looks thoughtful, but George is still glad when Siya stands. “Now, I should get to my team. Looking forward to the next contest,” he offers, reaching out to shake Owen’s hand.

Owen takes it, manages a wrangled smile. “We’ll try our best not to let you enjoy it,” he promises, to Siya’s amused chuckle.

~~~

George has a few moments alone in his and Owen’s room after the post match meal, with Owen having been cornered by the coaches as the rest of the players had been filing, zombie like, from the bus to their rooms. George feels sorry for Owen, frankly, wishes the coaches had left it until the next day to talk to him. He knows that they understand how Owen feels, as much as is possible, knows they won’t exactly be having a go at him - but he still worries.

George takes the free time to change into his pajamas, brush his teeth, and even fold his shirt and trousers ready to give back for washing. When there’s still no sign of Owen George climbs into bed, at a loss for what to do next as he finds himself unwilling to look at his phone and the no doubt sympathetic reactions from his family and friends. The time to himself, the quiet, has made George tired, made him aware of the effort he’s exerted today and just how late it is. More than that, though, the time alone has let his own emotions about the match start seeping through. George had been focussed on Owen’s frustration, on the way he knew Owen would be beating himself up for the missed opportunities and loss of composure. With Owen in a meeting, there’s no distraction left. 

It’s George’s own frustration forcing its way to the surface, now, George’s own disappointment in their missed opportunities, in the resilience of their opposition, in the sheer lack of learning from the week before, and the continuing pattern. It’s loss after loss after loss, building up, and it’s starting to eat away at George. He thinks he’s been playing better, personally, than he had been in the Six Nations - but it’s not making any difference, and if it’s not making any difference can it really count as playing better? They started so well, showed what they could do, and then - George wishes he fully understood what had happened, how to stop it. How could he have such a handle on the game, on the opportunities, and then find it all slipping away? The opportunities must still have been there, they couldn't possibly have vanished so utterly, so what had happened to leave them so unable to capitalise?

George is beyond glad to hear the click of the door, pulling him out of his increasingly negative cycle of thoughts. He stands, to walk to Owen, to pull him into the comforting embrace that he’d resisted before. He stops short as Owen barges into the room, kicking at the foot of the bed. There’s none of the silence of the last match, even Owen’s heavy breathing louder than anything that had been heard between them then.

“Fucking - patronising,” Owen mutters, without even offering a greeting, starting to hop precariously on one foot to pull a shoe off. “As if I don’t fucking _know_ we lost composure, should never have lost that lead, _especially_ after last week, should’ve ‘taken our chances’.” The last phrase is direct mockery, Owen imitating Eddie’s accent and intonation as he hurls his shoe to the ground, starts working on the second one. “What did they think I was trying to do out there, throw points away? Piss the ref off?”

With that Owen topples sideways, balance abandoning him and leaving him sprawled across their bed. George looks down at Owen from where he’s still standing by the bed, finding himself at a loss for words as Owen barrels on. George watches as Owen he pushes himself angrily to sitting before wrestling his second shoe off, launching it across the room, snarling in annoyance as it collides with the wall. George winces. He can’t remember who’s next door but it’s definitely their teammates, and he hopes they will take that that noise as someone tripping over rather than the temper tantrum it is. These guys know Owen, know what he can be like, but George would be surprised if any of his teammates have seen - at least recently - quite the level of petulance with which Owen is still sniping now. Every little grievance from the match, every minute mistake everyone made, is coming up - George thinks himself frankly lucky to be seemingly exempt by virtue of his presence.

George can do nothing but watch as Owen flings his jacket to follow his shoes, then his bowtie and his shirt. Owen stops for a moment then, breathing heavily, as he seems to realise that he’ll need to stand again to remove his trousers.

“Are you done?” George asks, quietly. Owen’s glare at the question is as fierce as any George has seen on the pitch, but he doesn’t let it phase him.

“Oh, I think I’ve got more than enough to carry on with, don’t you?” Owen asks rhetorically. “It was a joke, _I_ was a joke, should’ve kept it together, should’ve gone for those points, should’ve -” Owen cuts himself off, punching the bed, and now George thinks they’ve got to the root of it. What everyone else does, sure, that’s frustrating. But the things that really get to you are the things that are your fault, that _you_ could’ve done to make the game go better, to win the game even - the things you didn’t do.

“Then you learn,” George challenges, stepping directly in front of Owen, holding his gaze. “You should’ve stayed out of those fights, yeah - so you _learn_ , you don’t do it next week, don’t let Faf get to you - and we stay composed, you stay on the ref’s good side, we take those margins and we flip the match on them.”

“Are you on my side or not?” Owen demands, pushing to standing, to face George. “Especially now we know he’s fucking _outed_ me to the entire South African team?”

“What do you want me to say, Owen?” George asks, hearing a bit of heat come into his tone. He tries to keep it down, aware of their teammates either side of the hotel walls. “D’you want me to tell you that was great, same again next week? I can’t do that. You didn’t lose us this match, it’s _not your fault_ \- but yeah, you did some stuff you probably shouldn’t have. And you’ll learn from it, the way you always learn from it - or you’re not the man, not the player, not the _captain_ I thought you were.”

“Some kind of captain,” Owen scoffs - but it’s gentled as he looks down now, rather than glaring George in the eye.

“Yeah, really some kind of captain,” George replies. “The kind of captain who pulled us together on the pitch afterwards, talked about moving forward, about the next one, when you were clearly hurting. Or didn’t you mean that,” George pushes. “About winning next week, about proving our character by coming back when they think they’ve gotten us beat? Because right now, it sounds like you are beaten. It sounds like you’re doing their job for them, beating yourself up, when you know it’s not, never, that simple. You played well, Owen,” George goes on, when Owen appears to lack an answer. “Sure, maybe you got a bit caught up - but you still played well. We didn’t get this one, okay - we come back, we try again. It’s all we can do.”

“Yeah,” Owen accepts with a sigh. He steps forwards, into George’s space, and puts his hands on George’s hips, slipping up under his shirt to brush skin. “Sorry,” he apologises. “I got -” he can’t seem to finish the sentence.

“It’s okay,” George tells him. “And what Faf did - yeah, obviously that’s fucking - beyond unacceptable,” George says, finding himself having to control the heat in his voice again. “Of course I’m on your side, always, yeah? And you know this isn’t really going to mess with the media, when you come out,” George presses on, when Owen doesn’t reply. “That’s - it’s too big, it stands by itself.”

“Yeah - I mean, what Siya said, he must be right,” Owen acknowledges. “And I know you’re on my side, I’m sorry - I didn’t mean that.”

“You don’t need to apologise,” George shakes his head. “I get it, remember?”

“Yeah, that’s - that’s partly why I should,” Owen looks a little ashamed. “How are _you_ doing?” 

George shrugs.

“You’re saying all the right things,” Owen encourages, starting to rub circles on George’s hips with his thumbs.

“So were you, after the match,” George points out wryly. He reaches out to take his own hold of Owen, one hand on his hip and the other resting on the small of his back, playing with his belt loop. “I know all the lines, know all the things to say, know they’re true, even, but I still - it still hurts, I still can’t stop going over it. You know.”

“I know,” Owen confirms. “We’ll get the next one,” he says - promises. It’s a promise he’s made a few times this evening, a promise he’s made a few times before that.

George shakes his head, the movement almost involuntary.

“We might not,” he explains, when Owen looks at him in askance. “That’s always the thing, with matches like this - ‘oh, we’ll get the next one’. But what if we don’t? It doesn’t suddenly become worthless, all the work we do based off this, everything we learn from it. Putting it all on a win, on an ultimatum like that, it’s not realistic. A result isn’t everything, and talk like that makes it feel like it is.” 

“And it hurts more, if we lose,” Owen realises, nodding agreement. “We’ll lose next week then, okay? But we’ll be the most composed England team there ever has been - how about that?”

“Sounds perfect,” George smiles at Owen’s teasing. “But you get what I’m saying?” he presses.

“I do,” Owen agrees, squeezing George’s hips in reassurance. “I know, Georgie, and you’re not wrong - I just like having something to look forward to, to aim for.”

“I know,” George agrees in turn. “You’re not wrong either, and it is the way to motivate the boys, band them together - I just don’t like a promise, not when you can’t keep it.”

“You think we can’t?” Owen asks, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his tone.

“Of course we _can_ ,” George dismisses. “But you can’t guarantee that any more than I can - if either of us could we would never have lost a match. I don’t want to lay everything, all the disappointment of this game, on the dream of the next one. I can’t keep building up hope and pinning it on something we can’t totally control. The learning, we can control, we can build on. The outcome? Not so much.”

“And I can’t not have something to look to, a tangible target to win,” Owen quirks a small smile at George. “So I’ll not promise to you, and you’ll not stop me dreaming?”

“Sounds fair to me,” George accepts.

They stand in silence for a moment, Owen’s drumming his thumbs on George’s hips as George runs a hand along the waistline of Owen’s trousers. Owen leans in for a kiss, slow but deep, an outlet of emotion. George leans up into it eagerly, greedily, rising on his toes and relishing the feel of Owen’s warm skin underneath his hands.

“Still frustrated,” Owen mutters, when they pull apart.

“Could feel that,” George acknowledges. “Want to vent that energy?” he offers, pulling Owen in towards him.

After the first test they’d sought silent comfort, but for all the loss of the lead in the first test had been frustrating it’s nothing compared to the compounding of mistakes, the repetition of them - exactly what George wants to avoid making worse by promising each other the next game. 

This time it isn’t one set of missed chances burrowing under their skins, the desolation of one game stolen from under their noses when they should have, did, have it in their grasp. This time it’s two games, it’s allowing it to happen again, along with the irritation at their style of play. This time it’s frustration up front - and if the way to exorcise the desolation of last week had been silent comfort, the way to exorcise frustration is definitely action. Action on the pitch and on the training field, sure. Action in the gym, that too - but really, any action will do. 

“Yeah?” Owen huffs out a breath as George’s hand come around to play with his belt buckle. 

“Yeah,” George agrees, confirms.

He doesn’t want to talk, anymore, doesn’t want to think about the loss any further. He just wants to bury himself in Owen, and in action. Owen’s hot in a temper, petulant as it may have been, and for all their discussion has calmed down there’s still that frustrated energy buzzing under Owen’s skin, easy to see in the way his hold on George had never quite stayed still. George doesn’t think Owen could sleep now even if he tried, and he’s got his own evidence from before Owen came in of just how well approaching sleep had gone for him.

“Okay,” Owen murmurs, taking the permission as granted and wasting no time in tugging George’s shirt up and over his head.

George huffs out a surprised breath but gets his own hands working on Owen’s belt after missing only a beat. He misses another as Owen initiates another kiss, this one hungrier, more forceful than the last. Yeah, this is the distraction George wants. 

~~~

It’s the vibration of his phone alarm that wakes George the next morning, and he grumbles in his throat, not wanting to deal with it. He almost can’t believe his luck when it seems to stop of its own accord, only realising when the pressure of Owen’s hand returns to his back that Owen must have been the one to stop it.

“Morning Georgie,” Owen says, voice teasing and warm.

George just grumbles again.

He supposes it’s not too bad to be awake though, now he thinks about it. He’s lying half on Owen’s chest, one of Owen’s arms resting on his back over the covers, and the other underneath, in the warmth, fingertips gently brushing his side.

“How long’ve you been up?” George manages, after a moment.

“Maybe quarter of an hour,” Owen shrugs, George feeling the movement beneath him.

“‘Ve I been lying on you all night?” George realises. “Sorry, heavy.”

But Owen just holds on when George goes to roll away. “No,” he tells him. “I reached over you to get my phone and you kind of trapped me.”

“Sorry,” George repeats. But he’s waking up now, can feel the affection in the way Owen is holding him close.

“It’s nice,” Owen insists, ducking his head to press a kiss to George’s hair. “I could’ve shoved you off.”

“Mmm,” George acknowledges. “You wouldn’t,” he murmurs, starting to wake up enough to get a feel for where his hands are. He strokes the one on Owen’s chest over it and shifts the other to mirror Owen’s touch to his waist.

“No, babe,” Owen agrees, sounding amused. “I wouldn’t.”

They lie there, quiet, for probably another five minutes. George moves with every breath of Owen’s, finds the rhythm soothing enough to almost drift back off to sleep. The gentle brush of Owen’s fingertips against his side definitely doesn’t help his battle with sleep, and George jolts a little when Owen’s own phone alarm goes off.

“We gotta get up?” George moans, after Owen has shut this one off too.

“Flight,” Owen reminds him, settling back into bed despite his words

George just groans. “Stay here,” he tries, shifting further onto Owen.

“Yeah, good with me,” Owen agrees, words George can hear the smile in, dropping another kiss to George’s head.

“Five more minutes,” George says blurrily, despite the fact that Owen hadn’t exactly argued.

“You’ve had more than that already,” Owen says, amused. “My alarm was half an hour later than yours.”

“What?” George jolts again. “Half an hour?” he confirms, sitting up.

“You fell asleep again,” Owen tells him.

“You let me?”

Owen shrugs, having shifted his hold from George’s back to his hips. “Comfortable,” is all he offers as a defence.

George sighs, melting a little. “Yeah,” he admits, leaning down for a kiss.

It’s moments later that he realises slow affection like that is what’s got them into this mess - George really does like to have a relaxed breakfast before a flight, and there’s little time for that now. He pulls away from Owen’s lips reluctantly - has to catch his breath. Owen is practically glowing, lying there on the bed with a beatific smile, looking like the definition of the phrase ‘blissed out’. It makes George’s fingers twitch, where they lie on Owen’s shoulders.

“Almost forgot how much you like a morning cuddle,” George admits, again.

“Almost?” Owen questions, as he had last time, when they were both learning - or perhaps relearning - this relationship.

“Yeah, almost,” George agrees. He leans down for another kiss, lets himself sink fully back into Owen’s embrace despite knowing what a bad idea it is. 

“I - dreamt about this, sometimes, on mornings like these,” Owen says, slow and almost reluctant, when George pulls away.

“Yeah?” George encourages gently, watching Owen’s face, the tension in it as he fights for the words.

“Captaining England, waking up with my boyfriend on tour, the squad knowing - yeah,” Owen agrees. “I dreamt about it sometimes, never thought I’d get it. We’d’ve won the tour, though,” he adds, and George laughs obligingly.

“Was it - was it me, that you imagined?” George asks, can’t not, though he’s not sure Owen wants him to and even less sure he actually wants to know the answer. George bites his lip as Owen takes a moment to consider his answer, tucks his head down onto Owen’s shoulder so neither of them can see the other’s face.

“Sometimes,” Owen admits, finally. “Sometimes it was just - a boyfriend, anyone, but yeah, probably - mostly it was you, us together, both playing. Just like this.”

George buries his head further into Owen’s shoulder, knowing Owen can probably feel the smile that’s caused. He drops a quick kiss to the skin there before raising his head to make eye contact. “Well it’s definitely me now,” he says, confident. “Your dream come true,” he lightens, teasing.

Owen rolls his eyes, pulls George in for a brief kiss - George suspects to shut him up more than anything. 

George had never imagined anything like this, when they were kids. When he’d looked forward to the senior team he had had pictured him and Owen beside each other, sure, both on the pitch and off it, but he hadn’t put any thought into how. If he’s honest with himself George doesn’t think he’d seriously thought he _could_ have a boyfriend, in professional rugby. Now he wonders how he’d ever thought he could not, how either him or Owen had ever imagined they could just leave this behind. They’d done a good job of it, for a few years there, but now this feels - inevitable, inescapable. It feels right.

~~~

Seven hours later, Owen is laid out in much the same position - flat on his back, smiling beatifically. George’s fingers are twitching again, but this time he can’t look, can’t touch - he turns away to apply suncream.

“You look happy down there skipper,” Elliot calls, kicking sand over Owen.

“Just pretending you lot aren’t here,” Owen returns, twitching the smile up a notch.

“Pretending your boyfriend is, is that is?” Jamie jokes.

“Always,” Owen closes his eyes and sighs, feigning contentment, as the lads laugh.

“Guess you can’t go on a beach with him though, can you?” Jamie asks thoughtfully. “Too public for his fame?”

Owen shrugs, not seeming to tense up at the question the way George knows he has. “Might be too public for me, right after coming out,” he points out leisurely, as if he hasn’t been arguing with himself about whether or not they can go out, night after night. “But we’ve got a private beach, so we’ll be alright.”

“You’re seriously just going to stay at the one place, never go out?” Elliot asks.

“Probably not,” Owen replies. “It is Italy, it should be fine - what do they care about an English rugby player, even a gay one? Means it’s up to him, I guess, if he wants to risk being seen with me.”

George holds back from snorting - he’s not been aware of his input being desired in any of the debates Owen’s been holding with himself.

“So he is the more famous one?” Elliot presses.

Owen squints open an eye. “None of your business,” he tells him.

“We want to know if you’re doing well,” Jamie takes his turn to push.

“I think so,” Owen shrugs, closing his eye again.

“You’re clearly biased,” Elliot scoffs.

“Oi, you’re not imagining yourself on that holiday already, are you?” Jamie asks, when Owen doesn’t reply. “You can’t abandon us for the last match.”

“Eh, you’ll be fine,” Owen dismisses, smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

“We won’t be fine - PR, heading this way,” Elliot says hurriedly. “Quick, Fordy, hide us.” Elliot flings himself to the ground and starts piling sand on himself, Jamie quick to help.

George lets himself laugh, holding up his suncream covered hands as a defence when Jamie looks around for help.

“Well,” Verity announces herself, looking down at the scene. “I was going to ask if you boys wouldn’t mind doing a little piece for us with much the same set up as before, given that you and the fans seemed to enjoy it so much, but if that’s the reaction I’m getting...”

“Me and Jinskie again?” Elliot asks, looking up from his sandy prison. He makes eye contact with Jamie and shrugs, dislodging a lump of sand.

“We can do that,” Jamie agrees.

“So you’ve got yourself all covered with sand for no good reason, then?” Verity points out.

“No good reason?” Jamie protests. “ _I_ had fun, isn’t that reason enough?”

“Well...,” Elliot hedges, drawn out, and just laughs when Jamie inevitably throws more sand on him.

They arrange details of when and where, before Verity bids them goodbye, encouraging them to enjoy their recovery, apparently too busy to stay and join in - George suspects she just knows how quickly she’d end up in the sea, can’t really blame her for walking away.

George huffs to himself as Verity walks away, finished with his suncream application and still with far too much left on his hands. He’d tried to use the recommended amount to avoid turning red in two seconds flat, but he should have known it was completely unreasonable. “Anyone for suncream?” he offers.

“I’ll take it,” Owen offers, pushing up onto his elbows then reaching out a hand.

George looks down at Owen, bare chested and smiling faintly, reaching out. His eyes catch on the long line of Owen’s body, on the stretch of muscle at his side as he reaches up to George. He looks at Owen and he wants, and - well, what better excuse?

George kneels down, smears his palmful of suncream right into the centre of Owen’s chest. Owen drops back onto both elbows at the pressure, looking at George in surprise, but doesn’t protest. George takes that as permission, spreads the lotion further up Owen’s sternum, down over his pecs, pinches a nipple half because he can’t resist, half because it makes this look more like teasing than an inability to keep his hands off Owen, regardless of what Owen might know. 

Owen lets out an involuntary sound at the contact, a little huff, body twitching away.

“Ooh, he got you there,” Elliot helpfully points out.

Owen makes pointed eye contact with George. “I’ll get you back for that,” he promises, voice low.

George tries to contain his shiver. “Sure, love,” George looks away. “I’ll look forward to that,” he dismisses, knowing Owen will understand it.

“Aw, ‘love’,” Jamie exclaims. George freezes, immediately tries to relax - he hadn’t even noticed himself calling Owen that, hopes the tone will excuse him. “It’s been ages since I’ve heard anyone called that in camp. Wiggy used to call all us academy kids ‘love’, d’you remember?” he asks Owen

“We’ve been down South too long,” Owen sighs, covering it well - and when George glances back he finds Owen has looked away, looked down to rub the edges of his gifted suncream in properly, his touch lingering slightly over the nipple George had tweaked. “Forgotten how to talk proper.”

“Learnt how to talk proper _ly_ , more like,” Elliot corrects.

And neither George nor Owen will have that, George relaxing as they unite in the face of such snobbery. 

Once that argument is over - or briefly paused, more accurately - it’s a glorious afternoon at the beach. Winter it may be in the Southern hemisphere, but no one appears to have told the sun that. It’s not exactly hot, but plenty warm enough to spend hours on the edge of the water if they’re active enough - and active recovery is exactly the name of the game. They mostly stay around knee height, the wettest George gets coming courtesy of Owen ‘accidentally’ knocking into him, and ‘accidentally’ getting a handful of his arse as he helps him back up. George figures that puts them even.

He’s thinking about how to get back on top as they head back to the hotel, still thinking about it when Eddie pulls him aside. He stops thinking about it when Eddie walks him to a meeting room, sits him down, and tells him he’s out of the matchday squad. Just for a match, for a trial, while they play around with the forwards, but - out of the squad.

“I still want to be involved,” George hears himself saying, as he shifts in his sandy trunks.

“Of course,” Eddie agrees. “In training, in meetings, nothing needs to be different, and we wouldn’t want it to be. We just want to see what Danny can offer us after such a good season, and assess better how the two of you differ. This is a free match and I want to take advantage of that as much as possible, by looking at all our options in the forwards - which unfortunately closes the space on the bench, with Owen starting and acting as fly half cover.”

“I understand,” George tells Eddie. And he does. He understands everything Eddie is saying, understands the thinking, is glad the coaches are taking a look at the forwards, even - but somehow, he hadn’t seen it coming. The bench, perhaps, he would have been less surprised by that - but total omission from the squad? No, George hadn’t seen it coming. 

This is the end of his tour. No more match play, no further chance to change and redeem himself for the things that had gone wrong. That’s the season, right there, over and done with.

George gathers himself as Eddie dismisses him, walks through the now quiet halls of the hotel to his and Owen’s room.

George pushes open the door and Owen smiles at him - Owen doesn’t know, didn’t know. George can’t decide how he feels about that.

“Everything alright?” Owen asks. “Want to shower some of this sand off?” he invites, raising a suggestive eyebrow.

“I’m out of the squad,” George says, hollow.

“You’re what?” Owen demands, blinking, stopping in his tracks where he had been walking towards George.

“For next week, out,” George repeats. “They’re starting Cips, want to see what he can do - and with you on the pitch there’s no room for me on the bench. Not with all the forwards they want to try out too.”

“So you’re...”

“Out,” George says, for a third time. “End of the tour, end of the season.”

“Just like that?” 

“Just like that,” George agrees. It sits between them for a moment. “Can’t do much about it,” George shrugs, when Owen doesn’t seem to have anything to say. “So yeah, I’ll take that shower.” George reaches for Owen, tries for a smirk.

Owen steps away, shaking his head. “You’re just - out, just like that?”

“Seems that way,” George agrees. “Getting a bit sick of hearing that.” He reaches for Owen again, and again Owen moves away. “Look if you don’t want that shower I’ll have it anyway, I’m covered in sand,” George says, turning away.

Owen reaches out, catches his hand. “George,” he says - doesn’t seem to know what else to add. “Georgie.”

“Yeah?” George bites out, hyperaware of every inch of the fragility he’d been ruthlessly pushing down rising back up at Owen’s touch, the use of his nickname - hating how easily Owen had got him back there. He’s holding on by a thread, and not entirely sure to what.

“I’ll miss you out there,” Owen says finally, quiet, squeezing George’s hand.

And - _snap_. George bites his lip, savage, tries to pull away - but not hard, not far. He falls easily to Owen’s countering tug, folds into Owen’s body and lets himself be held.

“I’ll miss being out there,” George agrees, admits. 

“At least you were sensible enough to resist pinning everything on winning this last match, huh?” George can hear the wry smile in Owen’s voice, even as it’s muffled by the kiss he drops to George’s hair.

George tries to ignore the way his breath hitches at that, the way his grip on Owen tightens. “I guess,” he shrugs.

“You guess?” Owen asks, drawing back to make eye contact.

George shrugs again. “I wasn’t resting everything on winning it, no, but -” he chews on his lip as he tries to finds the words. “I guess I just - thought I had time.”

“Time for what?” Owen asks softly.

“Just - to improve. This season’s been -” George just pulls a face, one Owen mirrors back in total understanding “- but it felt like maybe it was getting better, overall, and now -”

“It’s over,” Owen finishes, when George can’t.

“Yeah,” George agrees. “It’s over,” he repeats, voice hollow. “I wasn’t ready for that. Probably should’ve been,” he says self deprecatingly, shaking his head. Little point flying Cipriani all the way out for 10 minutes here and there, after all.

“No,” Owen shakes his head. “I didn’t see it coming, either,” he tells George, pulling him in close again.

Quiet falls between them for a moment.

“I thought I had time,” George almost whispers, into Owen’s shoulder. “I thought I could still put things right, work on everything from the last two matches, learn from it and try to turn it around. But now -” he shakes his head. “I’m not ready to give the season up,” George admits. He wonders if this was how Owen had felt on Saturday night, not having been ready to give up the series, that hope of redemption from the Six Nations. 

“You’ll still train, yeah?” Owen asks, leaning back to make eye contact again, looking concerned.

“Yeah,” George nods. “Eddie even mentioned meetings, still being in those.”

“Then the season’s not over,” Owen tells him, earnest.

“I guess,” George shrugs. He does understand what Owen is saying, does even feel a little better for it, but - it’s hard to really feel it so soon off the back of a shock like that. Right now, it’s hard to imagine feeling involved in the match when he won’t be running out.

“You could be water carrier,” Owen says suddenly. “It seriously helped, when I was injured, to still be out there and talking to the lads, communicating and having an impact.”

“That’s because you’re a control freak,” George teases softly. It’s a good idea, he thinks. Probably a great one, a way to let him feel like part of the game even if he can’t play himself.

“Yeah, and I think if you look up the definition of the word fly half...,” Owen jokes. “Think about it?” he suggests, when George has no returning banter.

“Eddie’d have to agree,” George points out. It’s a good idea, but he’s not sure it isn’t a bit much to ask for. Eddie had already agreed to have him in meetings, George doesn’t want to look like he’s muscling his way back in on a spot they’ve chosen to give away.

“I could ask him, when we chat about the squad tomorrow morning,” Owen suggests. “I’m sure he’ll be happy with it, especially if he wants you in meetings still.”

“You don’t have to do that,” George deflects.

“I want to, I want you out there,” Owen replies, intent. “I want your thoughts on things. If you’d rather have a clean break, cut it all off, then yeah, just let me know, but - think about it?”

“I - I think I’d like that, yeah,” George admits, nodding.

“Yeah?” Owen brightens. “I can suggest it to Eddie?”

“Please,” George says. “And - thank you, for the idea.” _For still wanting me out there_ , George doesn’t say.

“Of course,” Owen dismisses. 

“I have to tell my parents,” George realises, stepping back. “Dad’ll be so annoyed.” His dad won’t be annoyed at _George_ , never would be, but the thought of the conversation, of that much emotion flying around, is nevertheless overwhelming. 

“You can tell them tomorrow,” Owen says, rubbing his thumbs into George’s shoulders where he’d refused to let George go, working on the fresh tension there. 

George thinks he should protest, insist, but - he doesn’t want to. They won’t be expecting to hear from him, and he just doesn’t want to deal with them, not now. “Okay,” he accepts.

“For now, let’s have that shower, yeah?” Owen suggests.

“Yeah,” George agrees, wrinkling his nose as he shifts his weight and sand rasps against his skin. “I’ve got sand in my shorts, thanks to you,” he gripes.

“Oh yeah? Think you might have been the one to start that, actually,” Owen smiles, letting himself be pulled in to George’s attempt to move the conversation on. 

Owen keeps up a stream of meaningless chatter through their shower, the subject as gentle as his hands on George’s body as they manoeuver around each other. George knows Owen’s rambling is intentional, knows Owen is giving him space to process. George goes for distraction, normally, to help himself deal with bad news - typically a loss. It’s worked for him for years, would probably still work now. He gets his head down, starts working hard to correct the wrongs before the dust has even settled. It works, sure, but George has started to realise that not letting that dust settle just leads to it following him, haunting him from match to match, stuck like sand in his shoes - or shorts. It’s something that’s especially hit home on this run of England losses as they promise each other the next one again and again, never letting anything stand in isolation. Whether George has learnt all he can from a loss or not this immediate constant switch to work as distraction makes it nigh on impossible for those losses to fade away. It’s not distraction that Owen is offering, in his words and his careful touch - it’s support. George lets himself take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, who expected this to go up so quickly? Definitely not me! I hope you enjoyed - if that's quite the right word, with both of the worst events of the tour packed into one chapter... Sorry about that! Shout out to [harlequin87](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harlequin87/pseuds/harlequin87)'s brilliant [like my mirror](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17257679), set in this universe(!!), for the idea of Owen having dreamed about this as a teenager - I really hope that at least that section of this chapter was enjoyable!

**Author's Note:**

> Updates due every Sunday, and comments always very greatly appreciated! I literally wouldn't still be writing this fic without them. I can also be found on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale), and I hope you enjoyed!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [like my mirror](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17257679) by [harlequin87](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harlequin87/pseuds/harlequin87)




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